


Merely Players

by LateStarter58



Series: Scenes with Martha and Tom [5]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief, Motherhood, References to Shakespeare, Work/Life Balance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 15:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16894824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: All the world is a stage if you're a celebrity couple with a baby and two successful careers...





	1. Mewling and Puking

IN THE CUBE

_I saw Dad today. On the way here, just ten minutes ago. He was walking ahead of me in the crowd as I left Starbucks. It’s OK, I know it wasn't him. I’ve known that every time I’ve seen him in the years since he died. And there have been a few - well, actually many occasions, all over the world, wherever I happen to be. I am assured it’s normal. Part of the constant learning of living without. But it hurts._

_I’m in the Cube. My writing place, where I spend most weekdays if I’m not elsewhere. It’s small and plain, in a bland block, with four white-ish walls. There’s a pinboard on one, and another is dotted with a multicoloured mosaic of post-its, with the odd blu-tacked page torn out of a notebook, and envelopes...whatever. You could call it a mind map or even a storyboard, but that would be overly generous. It’s really just a dumping ground for ideas I’m afraid will elude me if I don't write them down somewhere. Right now I’m standing opposite it, at the window, such as it is. It’s open as far as it will go, because the sun is out and the air is warm with the last breath of summer. The view is less than inspiring: the grubby rooftops of surrounding buildings, moss, straggly buddleias, pigeon shit, peeling paint on the rotting wood of the window frames across the way. The smell of London drifts in, tainting my coffee._

_I let myself wallow for a while. There’s no point in fighting it, I’ve learned that much._

_I wanted to make this my happy place. But me + thinking = happiness?_

_I miss him, of course I do. We were close; we loved each other a lot. In that English way where you don't say it much. Dad was never visibly affectionate, even when it became fashionable. Especially not then. Manly pats on the back, a kiss on the cheek, that look when he didn’t think you were noticing, that was more Joe’s style._

_I wish he could have known Audrey._

_I should be working. Something, anyway. The play is done. Well, I think it’s ready. I sent it to Paula to read. I’m going to ask T to look at it next week, when he’s less busy. I should be learning my lines for the sci-fi thing, but I can't seem to turn away from the gripping drama I have happened upon… A stupider-than-average pigeon is trying to get a bit of dead twig out of the guttering and he WILL NOT give up._

_Yes, Dad’s name - Josef Karl. No prizes for guessing. Granddad (who died long before I was born) was old CPGB. ‘Communist-Party-of-Great-Britain’, for those of you not on the Hard Left...You know, the ‘approved’ ones, with members who got their vodka from the Soviet Embassy, and had letters published in the Morning Star. So Joe East rebelled (see where I get it from?), while staying on the far left of course (we’re not ANIMALS). He was a Trot. A Trotskyist, denounced by his father as such, so he denounced Granddad back as a Stalinist lick-spittle (god, I’d LOVE to have heard them arguing! There’s nothing like a good political internecine squabble - see Life of Brian)...Joe joined the Workers Revolutionary Party, sold papers in the rain outside railways stations on Saturdays. Was on every picket-line and demo the seventies had to offer... Sat in crowded smoke-filled rooms, having intense discussions, plotting the overthrow of capitalism and arguing about how to mobilise the working class, late into the night._

_Until, that is, he fell out with the WRP leadership, including the Redgraves. Shame. I daren’t mention his name whenever I’ve met Vanessa, just in case she remembered. As for me, well, I flirted with a few parties, but apart from Labour for a year or so when I was at Uni, I’ve never really been a ‘joiner’. None of them felt like the right fit for me._

_I often wonder what he’d say, if he could see me now. Tainting my pure working class blood by breeding with one of the ruling class… the grandson of a VESTEY, for fuck’s sake! I hear his voice scolding me sometimes…”What ARE you doing, Martha? Didn’t I teach you ANYTHING?”_

_But you did Dad, you did. You taught me to care about the world, about the poor and the needy, wherever they are.  You taught me to speak out against injustice. You taught me to argue my point clearly. To educate myself, to think through and understand the issues. To know my own mind. To know a good person, one who shares my values when I see one._

_And to know what is right. And what I want._

_Dad never met Tom. He saw him acting with me in the Queen’s Players’ As You Like It, of course, but he never wanted to actually meet any of my colleagues. Mum would have loved to, but Dad was always dragging her out of the door at the end whenever they came to watch, claiming they needed to get back to let the dog out… I think he was uncomfortable in that world. My world. He didn't understand it, believed he had no frame of reference, no common ground._

_That wasn’t true. He was well read, clever. He could talk about anything, fuck knows, he did it all the time… Actually, I think he and Tom - and Diana - would have got on. Dad could quote the Shakes, he loved Beethoven and Brahms, Shostakovich… classical music was very important to him. A typical autodidact, he bought his books and records second-hand or from the Co-op, when they still sold them. Everything had to come from the Co-op… Poor Mum still dusts the yards of shelves full of tatty old LPs; she can’t bear to part with them._

_Yeah. I’ve seen my Dad a lot just lately. I’ve been writing about him, that’s why, of course. But I think it’s more than that..._

 

Friday 8 September 2017

“Finally. I made it.” Tom thought as he rolled his bags through the front gate. His heart squeezed painfully. He was tired, not to say dead on his feet, and the sight of his family - _his own little family_ \- waiting on the threshold for him was overwhelming. There they stood, confirming his thoughts and achievements, his woman and his child, the great loves of his life, welcoming him home.

“What time d’you call this, Hiddleston?”

“I call it, ‘ _welcome home tired but still handsome Daddy-time_ ’.” He smiled painfully.  “Hello my loves. Why, what do you call it, Mar?”

“Two hours late, that’s what I call it.” She frowned at him as he stood on the path leading to their front door. To one who didn't know him as she did, he probably looked a bit crumpled but bright and breezy, his usual charming, handsome self. But to Martha, who knew his every mood, his tiniest changes of expression, the subtle gradations of his eyebrow positions and the merest alteration in the angle of his head, he was exhausted. He’d travelled thousands of miles in the past week, performed before many audiences, danced and told stories a hundred times.

“Sorry.”

He saw her face harden just a little.

“Did you hold up the flight?”

“Well, no, bu-”

“Then don’t apologise, _posh-boy. Fu-_ I thought I was curing you of that!”

Tom dropped his bags on the step and moved closer, a lump rising in his throat as Audrey reached both chubby arms out to him. He lifted her from her mother’s grasp and buried his nose in her soft blonde curls. He took a deep breath, felt the warmth of his daughter’s tiny body against his chest, and all the tension left him.

 

Coffee, a piece of Martha’s lemon drizzle cake and a shower later, he was sitting at the kitchen table next to Audrey, who was propped up in her high chair, while her mother bustled around, muttering to herself and checking the cupboards and fridge, apparently making a shopping list. He picked up the _Guardian_ idly, but had no real wish to read the news.

“No Shiv today?”

“Nah. I gave her the day off, as I wasn't going to the Cube, not with you coming home. I thought a quiet family day would be nice.”

He nodded. Weariness was making his limbs heavy, but experience had taught him to try to get onto as normal a sleep pattern as possible right away. “Mmmm. So, any plans for us?”

Martha was glaring at the rack she kept her flour in. “I could have sworn I ordered that last… Oh, sorry… _the case of the disappearing self-raising_ … I thought we could go for a walk, as it’s such a nice day. It might help you stay awake a bit longer.” She smiled at him and he returned it with one of his wistful half-grins.

“Sounds good.” He looked at his daughter, who was regarding him seriously with blue eyes so like his own while she chewed viciously on her teething ring. He picked up a few moist crumbs of cake and offered his fingertip to the baby’s lips. “Want some of Mummy’s delicious cake, love?”

Audrey regarded the morsel suspiciously, babbled loudly and slammed her teether down on the plastic table of her highchair. Tom laughed, sucked the crumbs off his finger and tickled her fat neck. Giggling, the little one stretched out her arms and gazed wistfully at her father, who caved immediately, loosened the safety straps and picked her up. He sat back on his own chair and made his daughter comfy in the crook of his arm. “Come here, darling… now, how about a little taste of that cake?” He ignored the exasperated sigh from across the kitchen - he had a _Daddy-time_ shortfall to make up.

Audrey still wasn’t interested so Tom just bounced her gently on his thigh and sang _‘The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers’_ while she giggled and babbled and chewed hermulti-coloured square teether. When Audrey tired of that song and her father was trying to choose another, he looked up. Martha was still leaning on the worktop by the cooker, tapping her pen on the pad. She seemed rather tense to him.

“Is that bloke still hanging around?”

He watched as Martha’s back stiffened visibly.

“Yeah, but I just ignore him. Shiv is at expert-level when it comes to avoiding him when she’s got Aude... He pisses me off, but no, he’s only a minor irritation. Just a louse… a tick… a vile exoparasite.”

Martha suspected she would never be able to fully accept the intrusions Tom’s level of fame brought with it, but she was learning to keep her fury dialled down, if not totally under control. Tom was calmer about it usually, being a more moderate character and having had more experience than her of such intense attention. “I’ll text Luke, see if he can do something. Perhaps we… well, let’s see what he says.” His natural people-pleasing personality made him tend to do what he could to appease, but when it came to his daughter, his parental instincts kicked in and he was becoming less tolerant.

He looked at his partner, who was writing her list while checking her phone, presumably to see who would be around for which meals in the coming week. After a few hiccups, and the odd meltdown early on after Audrey was born, she had proved to be wonderful at this new reality. Martha, a domestic manager... Not a role he would have predicted for her at all, nor she for herself, he suspected. Had she struggled, did she still find it as overwhelming as he did sometimes? Was it that her great skill at doing more than one thing at once - acting, directing, writing - was transferable? That last thought reminded him of something.

“So, Mar, when are you going to tell me what your meeting was about?”

Martha tried to be casual, but the truth was she was brimming with nervous excitement about it. She had not given him so much as a clue, preferring to wait until everything was settled. She put the pen and paper down and crossed the room to sit next to him. He took her hand, seeing her barely suppressed exhilaration.

“They want me to do _As You Like It._ ”

“Rosalind?”

“Yes, but...they want me to direct as well.”

“WOW! Mar, that’s...GREAT!”

He pulled her onto his lap, and Audrey clapped her hands and giggled as her parents kissed one another passionately. Martha leaned back and stroked his face.

“I wondered if I could interest you in a role?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You promised me Rosalind, once...Not _Touchstone_ again, I hope?”

She grinned. “No. I was wondering if you could manage to pretend to fall in love with me.”

“Done. When…?”

“Well, filming should be in late April or early May, they say. Assuming we can get a cast together. I have another meeting next week, at the Beeb, with the producers. So, I can tell them to send the details to HH?”

He nodded. He was free then, as far as he could remember.

“I’ve decided one thing already: you’ll have to strip to the waist for the wrestling…and oil up.”

She was smiling at him wickedly.

“Martha East objectifying again…”

“Just thinking about ratings, love… imagine the trailers! _Aidan, eat yer ‘art aht!_ ”

Tom chose to rise above her teasing. “ _Where_ are you filming, do you know?”

“Oh, here… UK, I mean. They mentioned some probable locations. One was in Suffolk, actually. _Rendlesham_ Forest, was that it?”

“That’s near Mum’s. We could stay with her or she could mind Audrey. Mar, this is good, very good!”

His mind began to race, and was flooding with memories of his only other _As You Like It,_ of the early days of their friendship, of chilly rehearsal rooms and cheap digs with nylon sheets. Of cramped dressing-rooms and smelly minibuses. But most of all of being dazzled by this shining genius, who even in her tiny role was clearly destined for greatness. But not, he thought then, for him.

_As You Like It. PERFECT._

“Hold yer ‘orses, Thomas. First of all, you haven’t actually _got_ the part yet. I mean, I’d have to see how you audition.” He eyed her sceptically. “Second of all, have you forgotten what it’s like to be directed by the _Beast_?” She was still on his lap, and he dug his fingers playfully into the soft flesh of her waist. She batted his hands away, giggling, then stood up. “Let’s not get too excited just yet.”

“Like _you’re_ not already.”

“Yeah...well… its Old Shakes, innit? And it’s _our Shakes…_ our special one, eh, Audrey?” She bent down and kissed the baby on the forehead. Audrey grabbed a handful of her mother’s hair, and Tom had to carefully unpeel the fat little fingers from the rose-gold to release her. “Thanks, love… Come on, you two! Get your gear on, chop, chop… Let me just get this off to _Ocado_ and then we can get out… maybe have lunch somewhere?”

 

They made a handsome sight: tall, muscular and lithe, dark blond movie-star Dad; shorter but still on the tall side for a woman, his plumper, elfin-faced strawberry-blonde actor/playwright/director partner. Both in their _Ray-Bans_ , of course, and Tom in a baseball cap. And in her state-of-the-art baby buggy - the big-wheeled kind you can run with if you are so inclined (Martha was not) - was their curly-blonde-haired, apple-cheeked daughter. Hampstead Heath was reasonably busy for a weekday morning in term-time. The sun had brought the nannies and Yummy-Mummies out in force, and they and their small charges were gathered in twos and threes on the benches and walking along the paths that crisscrossed the slopes and wove between the trees, in amongst the dog-walkers and couples of all varieties. People clocked the Hiddleston-Easts but left them in peace in that English way. A few stared at Tom, but he barely noticed. Martha tuned them out too, as she had learned to do over the two years-plus she and Tom had been a couple. Before then she had been famous in her own right, of course, but not his kind of _fangirl craziness_ way. People would recognise her and occasionally ask for a selfie or an autograph, but rarely intruded. She had never minded that sort of attention, and accepted it was a form of validation. When she was in a successful and popular TV sitcom, it happened quite a lot. But not as much as it did now.

Still, their morning stroll above the smog of a sunny London was largely undisturbed. Tom had seen the pap following them, but he was keeping his distance. Tom did his best not to allow it to spoil the outing, but tiredness lowered his resistance and his face gradually set into a scowl he wasn't even aware of until Martha pinched his cheek.

“Hey, _Eton!_ Cheer the eff up! You’re back in the bosom of your family!”

They had reached their favourite café and were sitting at a table away from the window. Audrey was on her father’s lap while her mother was unpacking her little lunch-bag, putting the spoon, bib and little plastic container filled with pureed vegetable in front of her.

“Woman, I am exhausted!!!! …”

“I know. You’re totally cream-crackered and that…” she waved a hand vaguely, “... was shadowing us all the effing way and now he’s over the road behind that BT junction box.”

“Yeah.”

Tom’s back was to the street. He looked down at his daughter and his mood brightened a little. He smiled and the baby smiled back, and he tried to forget the man. He glanced at Martha, who was looking at him expectantly.

“Doing really well with the whole ‘not swearing in front of the baby’ thing, aren’t I?”

He nodded sagely.

“I am impressed, my love.”

The waitress came for their order and Martha gave her the little pot to warm. Their food arrived and they set about the juggling and turn-and-turnabout that all new parents have to learn. Martha had brought a bottle of expressed milk and Tom gave it to a now sleepy Audrey as they both enjoyed their coffees.

“Can we talk about your plans for _As You Like It,_ Ms. East?”

“Well, Mr Hiddleston, I wanted to cast a really talented actor as Orlando, but they’re making me choose some eye-candy instead, so…”

“Very funny. Any other thoughts?”

“I have a few ideas, but you know how it is… I need to see what they money-people say next week. In a perfect world I’d like someone like Derek Jacobi for _Adam_ , because I’d love to see you two acting together…” Tom grinned. So would he. “And Charles Dance for either _Duke Senior_ , or _Frederick…_ Best as _Senior_ , I think, playing against his image as _Tywinn_ , you know…”

“So I understand. I still haven’t watched it.”

“Oh yeah, I keep forgetting you’re a _GoT_ virgin. Well, if I can get him, maybe Ade Dunbar for the other brother, whichever way round…”

“Good thinking. Same sort of look.”

“And both excellent. If not, maybe Tim McInnerney… but he has cornered the market in evil blokes in power these days, so being contrary, I’d probably want him as the goodie... Not sure about the other roles… _Ideally,_ well, dream casting for _Jaques_ would be Rowan… His face would be perfect.”

“Atkinson? Yes, I can just imagine.”

“But I know he picks his parts very cautiously nowadays. He might consider this, as a one-off. It sort of complements _Maigret,_ I’d think…”

They continued their fantasy casting conversation all the way back to the house, and it was only when he had changed Audrey and put her down for her nap that Tom realised his intended original question hadn’t been answered. He walked into their large living room to find Martha sprawled on one of the sofas, scribbling in her familiar tatty notebook. He sat wearily down beside her. He had been awake for over twenty-four hours and he felt the weight of every second.

“You never told me what your thoughts were about the production, the play itself, I mean...which is what I was really asking in _La Cucina._ You know... _”_

“You mean, how can I bring my special _radical anarcho-feminist anti-Trump pro-EU extreme left wing agenda_ to the work of a 400-year-old middle-class male playwright?”

He laughed softly and leaned his head against hers.

“That’s the one.”

Martha leaned forward, put down her pen and pad, turned back towards Tom. She bent her knees and tucked her legs under her, getting comfortable. His head was still tilted and she could see he was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. She was too, but her exhaustion was not caused by a week of promos and long-haul flights. Her tiredness was more chronic, the bone-weariness that comes of being a working mother. And the thinking. All the thinking she had been doing lately. Getting this latest job had made her realise how exhausted she was, mentally, physically, even emotionally. She had accepted it without hesitation, not least because who in their right mind would turn down a chance to direct Shakespeare, especially for the _BBC_? But they were expecting her to come to the meeting on Tuesday with some ideas; with a plan for a _Martha East_ take on Will’s great play about love and mortality, which includes one of the best female stage roles ever written.

She looked into Tom’s face. The afternoon sun was casting a shadow across it and he looked more chiselled than ever. Her heart swelled. She loved him so much. She had pledged herself to him and their family and did not regret it. She knew he had done the same, felt the same but the practical effects of their public lives on their private one were tough, and it was unsettling. She wondered if Tom really understood what it meant for her. On a day-to-day level.

“Oh, I dunno. I haven’t really had time to think properly yet. I’m sure I’ll come up with something, you know… fob them off with a few broad statements… Once I get the casting underway, when I get a feel for the ensemble, then that’ll give me a few more ideas, help me formulate an approach…”

His eyes were heavy, and the sound of her voice, quiet and close, was lulling him.

_I’ll just close my eyes for moment. They’re a bit sore...I’ll just..._

Martha covered him with the blanket up to his chin, kissed his forehead lightly and stood up. She walked over to the shelves and took down two or three books. She was determined to make a few notes at least before Audrey woke up for her next feed.

 

IN THE CUBE

_I asked Mum the other day how she did it. She worked, you see, right from when I was tiny. She cleaned at night, getting home just in time before Dad went off to his job with the Electricity Board. When did she sleep? “When I could,” she told me. I’m lucky, I know: I have Siobhan. She’s great, nothing is too much to ask, I can't imagine, I started to say to Mum… then I remembered those days when T comes home and I shoot off out to a meeting, or the nights I get up and write while he’s asleep and she’s asleep and it feels like I’m the only person awake in the world._

_I know this won’t be forever. But it feels wrong to me. It feels as if I am only just managing to keep afloat while Tom is still having the life he had before. But with knobs on. “...men are April when they woo, December when they wed.”_

 

_No, Mar, That’s not fair and you know it._

_But this isn’t what I want._

_I remember a moment. Some nameless, long-ago teatime in the flat; I remember sitting on Dad’s knee, the smell of oil and metal and earth from the holes in the ground he worked in. The feel of his overalls under my leg. The line of dirt on his neck. I remember his laugh. Paul Robeson on the record player._

_Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen_


	2. Shining Morning Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting at the BBC doesn't quite go to plan...

Sunday 10th September 2017

She was deep, deep, _deep_ in the earth; at the bottom of a bottomless well, but being pulled inexorably upwards. Heaviness weighed her down, resisting the momentum, but still she was rising, up, up. She moaned and turned over, clinging to Tom in an attempt to avoid the inevitable.

Audrey was crying. It wasn’t a loud noise, but this new mother’s body of hers was highly tuned. There was no escape: Martha was waking, and reluctantly she began dragging her heavy limbs over the sheets towards the edge of the bed. She heard Tom stirring behind her.

“Mmnhuh?”

“It’s OK, love. She needs a feed.”

“Sorry, sorry love...sorry…”

He was already falling back into sleep, still adjusting after a week of time-zone-hopping. Martha slid her feet into her slippers, gathered her robe and crossed the landing to the nursery. She had done this so often she was almost on autopilot; she picked her wailing child up and sat in the big comfy chair to feed her. In truth, once she had made the painful journey from the depths and was actually out of bed, Martha rather enjoyed these times; alone in the darkened house, everything covered by a blue light, just her and her daughter, one-on-one. There was something so magical, so intimate about the two of them, locking eyes and skin to skin in the otherwise silent house. Silent, that is, apart from the unmistakable sound of _Old Golden Globes_ snoring, over the way.

“Daddy’s a noisy git, isn't he, Aude?”

The baby’s sucking had more or less stopped; Audrey wasn’t interested anymore and almost asleep, so she was swiftly returned to her cot and her mother crept back to the comfort of her own bed. She gently shoved Tom onto his side and the rattling was reduced immediately to a low rumble. Rain was falling outside, and Martha made an effort to follow the rhythmic beat of it on the roof, to be lulled back into the arms of Morpheus. She was so happy, but why did she feel sad? _Don’t think Martha, just sleep. Sleep._

 

IN THE CUBE

_Do I miss the old days? I mean BT… when it was just me? When I was free to please myself and nobody else?_

_Sometimes. At 2am. For a few seconds._

_Because once I emerge from that thick fog, out from under that blanket of sleep and come fully to my senses I remember that it wasn’t like that. I was never free in that way, no more than I am now. I was always obliged, always up against this deadline or that, having to prepare for the next job, write the next email or send the next begging letter to that AD or those producers…_

_Of course, I could go home and eat peanut butter straight from the jar on the sofa in my oldest t-shirt and thickest socks… watching a Buffy marathon. And wish Tom was there with me… Because that was the reality. I was happy, but only because I had no hope for better. Not in a defeated way, I truly was happy. I just couldn’t imagine any of this was possible. I didn’t dare dream of what we have. Did I ever dream of a child? I know I never dreamt of a child with Tom, but did I dream of one without him? Audrey...our darling precious little monster…_

_So no. I do not miss those times, the pre-Tom, pre-Audrey empty house, the dark rooms, the cold bed. The loneliness. I was missing half of me. I still feel that way now when he’s not here. I never expected to feel that, always scoffed when people said things like that, even Mum. But he and I do give each other a side that was lacking. And so, try as I might to deny it, I am not the same when he is away._

 

 

Tuesday September 12th 2017

“So this is the production budget we’ve been allocated. I’m afraid I can't see it growing, not in the current climate, even allowing for the residuals.”

The woman’s voice was high-pitched, almost painful. It hurt Martha’s ears, seeming to bounce off the wood panelling and the low ceiling of the small room. It was an old space that Lord Reith probably prowled in his day. Normally, she liked this building. You could feel the history soaking into you from the walls, imagine Gielgud and Robson and Burton beside you in the studios or marching the corridors… But this morning the gloom seemed appropriate.

Martha glared at the paper in front of her. She’d been down this route before, but on those occasions it was radio, everything was smaller and she didn't feel the weight of so much expectation. She swallowed, gathered her thoughts and did what she always did in these situations: she looked around the table, trying to catch the eye of everyone. In her experience, people usually betrayed their discomfort if you did that. None of them was looking up.

“I see. So what you’re telling me is that I have to cast and staff the whole thing from... _that_.” She poked at the paper. “ _And_ costumes, _and_ sets. The whole kit and caboodle.”

She felt movement to her left. Marianne was sitting next to her. Her agent often accompanied her to such meetings, usually a silent support, occasionally passing the odd note. _She thinks I’m going to lose it._

“You did hear me say that _Tom_ is on board as _Orlando_ , right?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“And you don’t think that might help the advertising, distribution? DVD and downloads? Even outside the UK? A _teeny bit, maybe_?”

Her heart was pounding; anger boiled in her gut. She had spent most of the weekend and yesterday on the phone or emailing, selling her project, putting together the cast and recruiting for a trusted crew.She had found a few takers, subject to confirmation of availability, of course, and was beginning to feel happy she was gathering a good group around her.

Now this. This… _pitifully_ low budget.

“Is that why you offered it to me?”

“I’m sorry, Martha? What do you-”

“Did you think I'd be cheap? Did you…” Something more occurred to her, something that made her fury burn more fiercely. She kept her voice even and dangerously quiet.  “Did you think, perhaps, that I don't need to be paid well nowadays?”

Glances were exchanged across the table, and Marianne put her hand gently on her client’s arm.

“Martha, you haven’t signed yet. If you feel-”

“It’s OK.” Martha turned back to face Helena Ross, who was leading the meeting. “Is this comparable to what you gave RTD to spend last year? I thought not.” She looked steadily at the woman opposite her, who was reluctantly meeting her gaze. “I came in today, in good faith, with a set of ideas much more modest than Russell’s lovely, imaginative _Dream…_ I was going to outline to you a simple, rustic Arden. All shot on location, with a few stars, including my-” She paused, feeling her temper beginning to get the upper hand. “… with the focus on the performances. But you clearly don't want that. You want a glorified school play.”

“Ms East, I’m sorry if you feel-”

Martha’s head whipped round to face the man who had just spoken. She knew he was the Head of Drama Production, and the one who was actually driving this particular bus.

“I’m afraid you will have to find another director. And an alternative Rosalind. _And Orlando_...This is unreasonable.”

She stood up and began stuffing papers into her bag beside her _MacBook_. She was trying not to cry, because the disappointment was a knife in her chest.

“Martha, please, stay, let’s discuss it, at least.”

A pair of green eyes flashed. Out of the corner of her eye, Martha saw Marianne stiffen; _I’d better give them another chance, I suppose._ She sat down again and turned her head to look expectantly at the grey-suited, grey-haired, grey-faced man. She did not see that Ms Ross did the same.

Rupert Boyd coughed and looked down at his hands. “There may be _some_ wriggle-room, here and there…”

“How much are we talking about?”

Boyd did not lift his eyes from the desk. “Perhaps two percent is doable…”

Martha absorbed this, did the mental arithmetic, trying to be reasonable. But no, however you look at it, two percent of not much is a miniscule amount. While she pondered, silence had descended; an uncomfortable, awkward quiet broken only by the shuffling of papers and the occasional muffled cough. Weighing her words carefully, she surveyed the room one last time. Not one of the _BBC_ staff wanted to meet her gaze.

“No, I can see this is a waste of my time and yours. You want a _CBeebies_ Shakespeare. Get Tinky-Winky to direct it.”

She swept out, desperate to keep her composure until the door swung shut behind her. This she achieved, running down the narrow _Broadcasting House_ corridor until she reached the ladies’ toilets. She scurried into a cubicle and sat down, out of breath and fighting back tears. A couple of minutes later she heard the outer door open.

“Mar? You in here?”

“No, Marianne, I am not.”

A light tap on the cubicle door. “Let me in.”

“No. I’m peeing.”

“No, you are not. And I have seen you doing worse.”

Martha stood and slid the bolt open. Marianne - large, middle-aged, dark and beautiful - squeezed in and leaned against the door. “Well, that didn't quite go to plan, did it?”

“I don’t know what else they expected, Marianne! That budget is a fucking insult!”

“I agree. I told them you would not be signing unless they increased it. They all looked very serious and the head honcho shook his head, but…”

“But what?”

Marianne grinned. “Helena winked at me.”

“Which means…?”

“I dunno, _exactly…_ My suspicion is she wants more money, so she was using the notoriously prickly Martha East as a lever.”

“Fuck, _really_? Not only I am the cheap option, I also provide entertainment!”

“Come on Mar, you know how this works. I wouldn't be surprised if you get an email or something from her in the next hour or two.” She smiled at Martha. “Well done, by the way. Just the right amount of controlled rage and menace.”

Martha grunted. “I don't know about _controlled._ I wanted to shove that budget up his well-upholstered arse.”

“I know.” She looked at her client. They had worked together for nearly ten years. She had guided Martha through her rise from unknown to _BAFTA_ -winner. She was immensely proud of her and hence not a little outraged by the farce they had just been subjected to. “Come on, let’s go for lunch somewhere nice. My treat.”

“Excellent plan.”

Martha found the walk from Portland Place and along Riding House Street to the brasserie therapeutic. By the time they were being shown to a table she had calmed down considerably, She had been making a big effort to keep things in proportion, she told Marianne. In the greater scheme of things, it was only a minor fleabite. Her agent agreed, although she was concerned that a bridge or two might be smouldering, back at _NBH_.

Martha ordered and sipped her wine thoughtfully. The day had started so perfectly, too. With Audrey sleeping in this morning and Tom at home, it had almost been like old times. She had woken up to feel him spooning her, a hot and urgent morning glory between the cheeks of her arse.

“Morning, little Thomas.”

“He says, ‘hi’”

“I know… He seems pretty well awake already.”

She had reached back and squeezed a perfect, hard buttock. Its owner growled into her neck, then sucked softly on the tender place below her ear, making her moan and wriggle against him.

“It’s all quiet, Mar. ”

“Shut up and fuck me, _Superstar_.”

Tom’s hand slid up the pale smoothness of Martha’s thigh, grasping her and pulling her closer, making them both groan at the feeling. She turned and met his searching lips with her own, and shuffled until he was over her, nestling between her welcoming legs.

Tom moaned loudly. She bit his earlobe. “Shhh! You’ll wake her…”

“Then stop being so fucking sexy, Mar. Christ! I’ve missed you so much…”

“Show me.”

So he did. Extensively. For an hour.

 

IN THE CUBE

_For all its grim austerity, the mess and the damp patch on the ceiling that seems to be growing (I’d better call the lease company actually), I love this little box. I know I loathed the very idea when he first suggested it, but as so often, he was right (NEVER tell him I said that). At first, I truly hated it. It was too sterile, I felt uncomfortable, there was no… I suppose you could call it ‘history’ for me here. Nothing of me. In the past, I found I needed to be comfortable to work well - not necessarily at home (I wrote some of my best stuff in hotel rooms on tour or in that villa on the Côte D'Azur). So to begin with it was hard to make the adjustment. If I looked up from the screen and keyboard, there wasn't anything to ground me, to shove me back on the rails. I may also have been somewhat resistant to the whole idea of it… maybe, just a teense..._

_But suddenly, after a week or two, during which I had got more written than in the previous ten, I discovered that it was working for me. I could leave ‘Mummy’ at home and become ‘Martha East’ here. At least, the writer part of her. I don't like the division, though. I had always managed to keep it all of a piece. I was all the things I did and each informed the rest. I had assumed (hoped, really) that I could absorb motherhood into that as I had being in a relationship - with hardly a hesitation._

_NOW, THAT’S AN ALTERNATIVE FACT IF EVER I HEARD ONE…_

_Why do I keep doing that? Why can’t I be honest, even with myself?_

_But to get back to the Cube, I came here after lunch, instead of going straight home, to put a sort of firebreak between what had happened and them. And while I sat glaring at my now redundant notes, my phone pinged: an email from Ms Ross._

_“So sorry about earlier. I think I may have some good news for you by close of play tomorrow. Please, PLEASE don’t write AYLI off just yet.”_

_So, Marianne was right. Why the fuck people have to play these games, I don’t know. It’s always the same when you deal with monoliths like the Beeb - power plays, misogyny, politics._


	3. His Mistress' Eyebrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha gets on with her preparations for other work while she waits to hear from Helena Ross, and ponders on the nature of grief.

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_Progress. It’s a myth, you know that, right? Perpetual change, constant movement, but in all directions: that’s the reality… not always rapid, or at least not as rapid as the last fifty years. But things change, grow, decay - they fall apart, the centre doesn’t hold_ \- _sometimes this is for the better, oftentimes not. Mum is fond of reminding me that in the course of her lifetime, the situation for women, gays and people of colour has improved enormously. And I can see that is true, in some places at least, but if this last couple of years has taught us anything, it is that we have to be constantly vigilant. The regressive forces have never gone away; they simply bided their time, waiting for the tide to turn. No matter how paranoid that sounds, it is the simple truth._

_And so, here we are. Here I am, pushing the same old boulder up the same old hill. Having to protest against the same old shit. Having to fight for the same shit.  Are we really going to have to teach our daughter all the things my parents had to teach me? That she IS as good as the next man, probably better… that she SHOULD be paid the same for the same work… that she is (or should be) valued for what she brings to the table, that her relationships should never define her value… that her appearance is irrelevant to her talent... that she should NOT be expected to adhere to other people’s standards of anything, simply because she has two X-chromosomes._

_What we have to understand is that what progress has been made in society needs to be constantly shored up and reinforced. Because it is flimsy, and sometimes barely skin-deep. Like at the Beeb. Oh, we all know about the ‘diversity’ rules… but then you come up against the crap I just had to listen to, and you realise that it is just that - a rule. Lip service. Some arsehole number-cruncher somewhere decides that they can tick a box by having a woman director, and that is an excellent idea because she’ll cost less… then his mate down the corridor jumps on the bandwagon and thinks that, being a woman and thus ‘naturally’ good at housekeeping, she’ll be able to do the whole thing for less… and if we get her to play a leading role as well, we’ll get a BOGOF and... Bingo!_

_I’m used to it, god knows. Because I decided early on that I wanted to write, I knew I’d have to direct my own stuff or it’d never get put on. So that’s what I do, mostly. Just a few times I haven’t acted in it too, but 90% of the time it’s good old Mar the Multitasker - the Beast with Two Jobs. I don’t delude myself; I’ve been lucky. Because I was in a successful TV comedy, people knew my name, and that gave me a foot in the door. I still had to do all the work, but I was given a chance to try. So many women in the business still don't even get that much. For that reason, I have always tried to give others get a leg up when I could. Sisterhood, all that crap, but…_

_I don’t think I’m imagining it, but I get the feeling that I am viewed differently now. By my peers, I mean.  Since Tom and I have been ‘an item’, as the rags have it. As a traitor, perhaps…Did I betray anyone? Did I?_

 

##  _Wednesday September 13th 2017_

Breakfast was a noisy occasion these days. Martha thought wistfully for a moment about her little house in Stoke Newington, and the peaceful mornings at her kitchen table: a big mug of black coffee and the _Today Programme_ murmuring softly in the background. Not so softly she wouldn’t shout at the radio from time to time, cursing John Humphrys or urging Sarah Montague to ask the _really important question…_ But then the sight of Audrey brought her back to reality, and the sensation of Tom’s large warm hand on her thigh washed away the tiniest trickle of nostalgia she may or may not have been feeling.

“So, are you meeting Marianne today?”

“Yes, I’m going into town later to see her. I’ll have to carry on prepping, in the hope that Helena Ross can get the funds sorted… I dunno. I’ve sort of gone off the whole thing. If they asked me for a definitive answer right now, I’d probably tell them to shove it up their…” Tom sniggered. “But no, I’ll give her a chance. I just wish she had told me, instead of using me like that.”

Tom reached over and stroked her hair in a gesture that usually soothed her. “It is a bit shabby of her, yes… On the other hand, think of it, a _BBC Shakespeare_ to add to your already glittering CV! And the fun we’ll have…” Martha sighed inwardly. _Why was he always so enthusiastic about everything? Would he have been as excited if they’d given him the crappy deal? The problem with Tom is that he has a way of winning you over to his side. I don’t know how he bloody does it, but he bloody does it. He smooths my edges; he makes me relax._

By the time Martha was rattling on the _Northern Line_ into Central London, her head was awash with thoughts of Arden and how to stage the scenes. She walked up Dean Street with a positive spring in her step: the _Hiddleston Effect_ had taken hold again. Marianne’s Soho office wasn't the most prepossessing of places. A few steps from _Ronnie Scott’s,_ up a narrow flight of stairs, _Radcliffe-Beal_ was not by any means the oldest of London’s theatrical agents, but it had become one of its most respected in its twenty-year life. Their client list was modest in size but impressive in quality. Marianne and her partner Pamela Beal had set out with the aim of finding talented women and helping them to build careers in all aspects of the business. Martha had been one of their shining lights, and her success had played a large part in that of the agency.

As she made her way up, Martha recalled her very first visit, over ten years before. Marianne had contacted her at the end of the Queen’s Players’ _As You Like It_ tour, offering to represent her if she was available. Since she had been trying, unsuccessfully, to get a better agent since she left university, Martha had jumped at it. It was only after a year or more that she realised just how fortunate she had been in hooking up with this particular one. The same receptionist was waiting at her desk as that first day: Sharmila was her usual cool self, smiling reluctantly at client’s greetings and wordlessly pointing them to the comfy chairs in the waiting area. Martha was singled out for a warm welcome, however.

“Martha! How’s the baby?”

“Hold on.” Martha fished out her phone and showed Sharmila the newest shots of Audrey, gurgling and blowing bubbles during their walk on the Heath, and giggling at her father’s face pulling.

“She’s so beautiful, Martha! Must take after her father-”

“Shut yer face!”

The two women laughed. It was a familiar process; Sharmila never conceded an inch, Martha never expected her to.

“She’s expecting me.”

“Yes. She’s on the phone, but you can go in.”

Marianne Radcliffe’s office was like her: large, stylish with a hint of the Bohemian. The walls were decorated in traditional fashion with posters and promotional photos of clients and their work. One corner was reserved for award ceremonies, and Martha spotted herself holding her TV _BAFTA_ next to her proud agent. That night seemed like an age ago, even though it was less than five years since she had heard Julie Walters say her name and floated up on numb legs to collect that beautiful chunk of metal. Martha sat down in one of the brown leather tub chairs. Marianne, who had her stockinged feet up on the antique mahogany desk, waved her hand but her attention was on the person at the other end of the line.

“What do you mean, he ‘doesn’t like it’? Tough titty, darling. That’s the way the cookie crumbles, insert cliché of choice. You’re the star, _tell him_ , for fuck’s sake!” She rolled her eyes at Martha, who grinned in reply. She had been on the receiving end of a few of Marianne’s pep talks herself in the past. “That’s the spirit, dear. Right, love, call me when you get home and we’ll have a proper chat. Bye, sweetie!” She put the phone down and let out a noise. It was somewhere between a sigh and a scream. Martha chuckled, earning herself a glare. “It’s alright for you, _Ms Star of Stage and Screen_ , it’s my job to hold the hands of the 99% who are still scared of everyone and everything.”

“I used to be the same, don’t you remember? Manchester Exchange…?”

“Christ, I’d forgotten that. I was on the verge of heading for Euston, afraid you were going to run away if I didn’t physically restrain you!” She laughed, good-naturedly. “Nowadays I just have to go around in your wake, trying to put out the fires…”

Martha grimaced. “Have you heard any more from Helena?”

“Actually, yes. I expect you’ll be getting an email today. She wants a meeting on Friday; she has secured some more funds out of them. As I predicted.”

_Right._ “Did she give you any indication…?”

“Not in so many… but I got the impression it’s a big hike.”

Martha checked her calendar. “Did she say a time?”

“Morning, she said.”

“Well, I’m free. You?”

Marianne nodded. “I’ll be there.” She paused, looking at her client who had become a close friend. “Is everything OK, Mar? You seem extra stressed at the mo-”

“I’m fine!” Martha realised that had sounded the opposite. “Sorry. Really, I’m OK,” she continued, more quietly, “it’s just… I suppose there’s a lot going on. Tom is home and Audrey and everything. And the play. It’s finished, I think, but… I dunno, this business over the budget just knocked me sideways.”

“Of course. Well, it was infuriating. I know you were really excited about doing it.”

“Still am, if they come up with their part of the bargain. I’ve had a few more thoughts overnight.”

Marianne smiled to herself; Martha always worked best if there was a bit of red mist. “Excellent! I can’t imagine that having a nice fleshed-out concept will hurt us in the negotiations. Now, coffee or tea? I think Shar’s got a coffee and walnut cake out there somewhere...”

 

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_I’m pacing. That’s what I do when I’m learning lines. T runs, I NEVER run. But I did try walking and learning, after he recommended it to me yonks ago. But even without the funny looks from passers-by, it just didn’t work for me. I’d see something or someone, and my brain would focus on that, or it would spark an idea about something I was working on writing, and that was that. The dialogue I was supposed to be learning was gone… So I do this._

_It’s a smallish role, an engineer on a spaceship who gets killed halfway through the second act, but I took it because she’s interesting. And the film is something completely new for me. I mean, I know I did Dr Who a couple of years back, but I was unrecognisable in prosthetics and green make-up, and also Earthbound. In this, I’m on a spaceship. The sets they are building look amazing - Duncan wants to use as little green screen as he can get away with. And yes, I know I’ve got two months until filming but I want the script to be second nature by then. So I start slow, soaking it in. Next step will be to get old Loki to run the lines with me. The only snag with that is he’ll go all in, start with his silly voices and impressions, then he will get physical and I end up laughing and next thing, we’re snogging… Actually, that doesn’t sound much like a snag, now I think about it._

_I suppose I thought we would get used to each other, after a while. You know, settle into a domestic routine - when he’s there, which isn’t enough - but no. He still drives me wild with lust. Insane. Making up for the lost ten years, he says.  Would it always be like this for us? There are dark moments when I’m afraid that he’ll go off me, find a more ‘entertainment industry conforming’ woman, better looking, more glamorous, a model, maybe? I don’t really believe that… I truly don’t, but I do think, sometimes, that he and I... we’re the result of some sort of Universe mismatch. A mishap of destiny. I guess I am afraid life will correct this misalignment, eventually..._

_Anyway, insecurities aside, I have allowed for an hour of line-learning this morning, before I sketch out my ideas ready for the meeting tomorrow. It came to me yesterday, somewhere between Mornington Crescent and Warren Street, in a clear vision: all on location, all as simple as possible, all in the open air… A gamble, given the British weather, but Suffolk is the driest part of the UK. And if it rains, well, we are British! I want it to be the location equivalent of a Globe production: just the text, in the simplest staging possible. The cast, which I have mostly assembled already, will more than make up for any lack of bells and whistles. And last night I hit the jackpot. Rowan - my hero - called me back and said YES! Well, provisionally, but that’s true of everyone so far, me included._

_I know it seems a little nuts, but I am glad the work is all piling up one on the other like this. It makes it hectic, of course, because I have only just finished writing the play for the National. No doubt I will have to do rewrites and revisions galore before it actually gets to the stage, but I’m used to that. No, having two acting jobs lined up either side of Christmas is perfect. No responsibilities, nothing to do except learn my lines, turn up and not walk into the furniture. The ideal antidote to writing, especially something as personal as THE PLAY._

_‘The Empty Chair’ is the sequel to ‘Sunday Afternoons with Dad’, which was my tribute to Joe. Not everything in it happened in reality, but the essence of our relationship was there. All of it, I hope. This new one is about living with loss. I thought I’d got it under control, until I started writing. I was so sure I had coped really well. But that’s the trouble. It catches you unawares; turns up again, out of the blue, wearing a different disguise. Getting together with Tom, that was one thing that loosened my grip (the one I believed I’d had). Perhaps the safety of being with him at last, of his love, allowed me to let down my guard. But becoming pregnant, that was the killer. You get very emotional, and the whole process is so bound up with your identity, your own childhood, and your family… there were days when I was a total mess. I’d be jealous of Tom’s Dad - which is stupid and irrational, but my heart just kept screaming “WHY IS HE HERE??!!” I’d started writing TEC by then, so the hours spent thinking about living without Dad, recalling the times I spent with him, the arguments, the cuddles, the pain and the laughs, and examining my feelings minutely… I had to stop in the end, shelve it until after the birth. Not the grief - that was pouring out of me by then - but the play._

_Is that why I feel like this, so uneasy, unsettled and unsure of myself? The months of writing, of dwelling on those feelings of bereavement? Or is that just one factor among many?_

 

##  _Friday September 15th 2017_

Martha was standing at her desk in the study, gathering her things together ready to set off for _New Broadcasting House_ and her make-or-break meeting with Helena Ross. But she couldn’t go until he said something. Her back was to Tom, who was sitting at his own desk, slowly reading the manuscript she had given him over breakfast, turning the pages, his face serious. She heard him take in a sharp breath and her curiosity got the better of her. Turning round, she did her best to maintain control.

“What?”

He didn’t look up, just held up one hand as his eyes scanned the text. “Hang on, almost done.”

Martha ground her teeth. In the past, before they were a couple, she would often invite him round to read something she had written. Not just plays, but pieces for magazines, even her speech to her old University. She had always valued his opinion - he ‘got’ her, something that was both a blessing and a curse. In return, she had always been able to read him, she believed. She could usually get an indication if he liked it or not by his body language, courtesy of those unconscious cues she had learned, as you do when you are in love with a person.

But not today.

Eventually he put the script down, swivelled his chair a half-turn and looked at her. She could hardly stop herself from screaming.

“Well?”

“Darling, it’s…” _Oh god, he hates it. It’s awful, I knew it was shit_ “... _majestic_. Incredible. Heart breaking.” Now she saw his eyes were full of tears.

“Is it? It’s OK, then? Only I-”

Tom had stood up so smoothly and gracefully she hardly saw him coming but nonetheless she fell gratefully into his embrace. “You are brilliant. And beautiful. You outdid yourself, Mar. Have I told you lately you are brilliant?”

She pushed at his chest playfully, grinning. “You might have. But it bears repetition.” He kissed her, long and slow, instantly making her regret her meeting. After a while she remembered that Siobhan was in the house and her _Uber_ was due any second.  Reluctantly, she pulled back. “I have to go, love. And you have emails to reply to, don't you?”

Tom pulled a face and nodded. “Yeah, I do. OK, I’ll let you go, then. Knock ‘em dead, darling.”

She smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m gonna blow their fucking socks off!”

Two hours later she was leaving _NBH_ with Marianne, both of them giddy with victory. Not only had the budget for _As You Like It_ been increased to an acceptable figure, but also Martha’s proposals for the production had been received warmly and with enthusiasm. She texted Tom triumphantly.

  * _It’s a GO!_
  * **_Yes baby! Arden, here we come, then_**
  * _Yep :D_
  * **_The more fool I_**
  * _Shut it, you or it’s Touchstone for you again_
  * **_From the east to western Ind, no jewel is like Rosalind_**
  * _Better ;)_




	4. The Bubble Reputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is making a big effort to be a more equal partner, while Martha gets an unexpected invitation that cheers her up no end.

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_What do people see when they look at me? I don’t mean Tom, or family and friends, but the rest of the world. What did those arseholes at that meeting last week see? A virago, a shouty leftie with a big mouth? A woman? An actor? A director? Do they see me as a function of Tom, now? Is it we-will-put-up-with-her-politics-as-he-seems-to-love-her? A mother?_

_Am I being too sensitive, imagining it? Fuck knows, I’ve been acutely aware of sexism my entire career, how could I fail to be? Maybe I have seen prejudice where there is none on occasions. But attitudes to me seem to have changed, since two summers ago and the Twitter squabble. Before then I was easy to pigeon-hole: feminist commie strident bitch, probably a lesbian, definitely a lesbian… Then Tom happened. I suspect that from then on they really didn’t know what to do with me._

_The hardest thing is that some of the people I used to count as friends, or at least valued colleagues, look at me differently. Perhaps they liked me being single, bad-tempered (I was, I freely admit) and lonely, I dunno. Was I better that way? More interesting, perhaps?_

_No._

_At first there was incredulity from some, love and support from others. True friends were there for me, unstinting. Still are. But in this business, more so than anywhere I guess, there are always the others; the ones who will love you when they need you, ignore you when they don’t, hate you as a rival at the slightest feeling of envy, threat. And I am not talking about the media crap, because for the most part it’s bollocks. Or the fans or the trolls, they don’t bother me. I quite like poking them sometimes, but T doesn’t like it so I try to behave. I am talking about industry people; it’s harder to avoid the shit from work colleagues. Half-heard remarks, looks, eye-rolling… I might pretend to be a cast-iron Amazon warrior, but I am human, under it all. I shouldn’t care what people say and think about me, I know, but I do; despite myself, deep down, I do care._

_It has always been this way, I know. I know. I suppose it hits home sometimes, now, because it touches on the truth. Because the fact is, when I look at myself, I’m no longer sure who I see._

 

##  _Sunday September 17th 2017_

_Bacon? Is that_ _bacon and coffee I can smell?_ Martha rolled over to find Tom’s half of the bed empty, and she realised she hadn’t been woken in the night for the first time in what felt like decades. Sighing happily, she allowed gravity to take her onto her back again and she closed her eyes. She could hear _Radio 3_ burbling something baroque, the occasional bang of a cupboard door and that whooshing gurgle was the coffee machine. Martha was just beginning to wonder if Audrey was OK when she heard a familiar giggling sound, quickly augmented by Tom’s basso rumbling.

“Did you get up in the night? I must have been-” She had roused herself and was leaning on the door jamb watching Tom juggling pans and striding over to put bread in the toaster. He had come back from his run, quietly got Audrey up, and was now cooking a Sunday full English. He twirled round at the sound of her voice, a wide grin splitting his face.

“Good morning my beautiful one! Yes, I did! I thought it was my turn. Fortunately, I happened to be awake when she stirred, so I gave her a bottle. She went right off again, and that was the only time she woke.” He looked at Martha, his eyebrows raised. “Maybe she’ll sleep through sometimes now…?”

His partner shrugged. “Perhaps. Eventually… She’s starting to teethe, and some nights I’ve been up four or five times because she’s grumpy.” Martha stepped into the kitchen and surveyed his handiwork. “Yum...is that black pudding?” He nodded happily. She sat down at the table and kissed Audrey, who was propped in her highchair, Tom’s ancient blue bunny in her hand. She’d been using him to soothe her sore gums, so poor Bunwab was soaked through. “Has she had her cereal?”

“Not yet… she turned down a drink of water, so I thought she could wait until we’ve eaten. She’s fine, love.”

He slid a plate in front of Martha: bacon, sausage, egg, black pudding, fried bread, tomato and mushrooms. His own was the same, and after fetching the toast and coffee, he sat down, his face a picture of pride. Martha rubbed her hands and picked up her cutlery.

“Thanks, darling. This is exactly what I need.”

“Thought so,” Tom mumbled around a mouthful of food, “I know you never bother if you’re on your own.”

“Can’t match this, babe.”

Once he had finished his breakfast, Tom cleared the empty plates and sat down again. He lifted his coffee, took a deep draught and then leaned back in his chair. “I know it’s unfair on you, sometimes.” Martha was still in her robe, feeding Audrey, her hair tousled and her face flushed; she looked simply perfect to him. But he could see she was tired, and one night of zero baby-duty wasn't going to be enough to fix that. She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off. “Hold on, let me finish, love.” She looked at him impatiently, but he had that determined set to his jaw which she recognised. “I’m not stupid, you know. I’m aware that having Audrey has meant a lot more disruption and change for you than for me, and that it’s been hard. Especially when you’re stuck here on your own while I’m off gallivanting. I see it and I get it. And I know it isn’t fair, Mar.”

Martha looked at him for a long time without speaking. She felt the baby tugging on her breast, and a range of deep emotions poured through her like a flood. Humbling happiness, incredible sadness. It was all so simple at moments like this: there was no doubt in her mind that this was all that mattered. But it wasn’t. Life was much more than home and love and family, even if it might feel that it would be so much easier that way sometimes. She smiled sadly and looked down at Audrey who was trying to put her thumb in her mouth alongside her mother’s nipple.

“Martha, talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say? I don’t want to sound like the latest edition of bloody _Good Housekeeping_... I won’t lie, I have found it tough. Not her, not looking after her. I mean, I get knackered, of course, but it’s what I expected and I know it won’t be like this forever.” She gently eased the baby off her breast and cradled her as she dozed.

“What is it, then, love? What’s bothering you?”

“Me.”

“ _You_? How d’you m-”

She shrugged. “I don’t feel, _I mean, I can’t_ … I just don’t think I know exactly who I am anymore. What I want to do, what I should do.”

Tom’s heart lurched at the bewildered expression on her face. He nodded. “I see.”

 

##  _Monday September 18th_

“ _Oh my f-_ ” Martha corrected herself quickly because Diana was there, cradling her dozing granddaughter. Martha put down her phone, grinning wildly at Tom.

“What?” She shook her head at him, giggled, picked up her phone again and looked at the screen, her eyes wide. Finally she passed it across the kitchen table to him. He smiled and laughed. “Fuck! That’s great!! Sorry, Mum.” He felt a rush of love as Martha’s cheeks glowed pink with childish glee.

Tom’s mother coughed politely. “Is anyone going to let me in on the secret?”

“They want me to be on _Desert Island Discs,_ Diana.”

“Oh, congratulations! That’s quite an honour, and much deserved, I must say.” She winked at her son. “Now, what will be your eight recordings? And there’s the book… and the luxury.”

Martha’s face fell. “Oh, sh-.” Her mouth clapped shut. “I hadn’t...I mean I _used_ to plan it, but not for ages…” She looked at the email again, scanning the text quickly until she let out a loud sigh. “It’s OK, I’ve got two months to make me mind up... _PHEW_!”

 

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_You know, that email coming when it did was almost enough to make me ‘believe’… not really of course (NOTHING short of a prime-time TV appearance doing miracles in Trafalgar Square or something could do THAT)(or Trump catching fire when he touched the book at his inauguration, perhaps...?), but fuck, did I need that kind of affirmation right at that moment. Being the nice guy he is, T says it’s a timely reminder that I do have a distinct identity; that I matter as an artist, a performer, a creator, and I do still have respect in the biz for what I do, professionally._

_As opposed to with whom I share bodily fluids._

_Naturally, like so many of us Brits, I have been mentally rehearsing for DID all my life… There was a time when the playlist would have been largely Billy Bragg and Ian Dury. Now? Well, there’s the rub: I haven’t given it much thought in years, and music, while still important, has become more… I suppose, me being so busy and/or wiped out most of the time, it has taken something of a back seat lately, become slightly more peripheral for me. Of course, there are some givens: T singing ‘Cold, Cold Heart’ at the beginning of ISTL (still sends chills up my spine EVERY TIME), and him reading a sonnet… His voice is just so… Wait, this is about me. Well, T is about me. Whatever. I digress. Paul Robeson’s ‘Joe Hill’, because that was Dad’s fave; and some Bach cos Gaaahhhd, I ADORE Bach. So calming, so exquisite. Plus we need variety in genres. Obviously the Beatles: ‘Hey Jude’, maybe, so I can sing along as loud as I like. I have a few unfinished ideas, more of the Fab Four, but which? And NO STONES, Thomas (cue eye-rolling)._

_Naturally, I have been getting plenty of unsolicited advice. Last night in bed, Tom suggested I choose some Zeppelin: “‘Whole Lotta Love’, darling (he said winking unsubtly), to remind you of ME.”_

_I may have snorted._

_Don’t tell him I said this, but he was pretty close to the truth, actually._

_The invitation has helped me focus on the real issues a bit more too - thinking about being all alone, without Tom and Audrey, I mean. I moan - here at least - but I would not give either of them up for a second. I had a pretty good life before Tom: I had love and laughter, but my days were spent largely alone. I needed that solitude to write, but a life that lacks intimacy - by which I don’t just mean sex, but the sharing of everything that comes with a romantic partnership - is a poor thing, especially for an actor and a writer._

_And having Audrey has been an utter revelation: I was one of those who rolled her eyes when friends and relations talked about their kids, but now I understand the fascination, with even the tiniest details. From the moment I first held her, saw her eyelashes and her teeny-tiny fingernails, I have been besotted. Midnight feeds and puke-inducing nappies haven’t dented that adoration. I suppose it’s natural to be that way - all my friends who have children are the same, I think. This mother love, it’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. It’s so powerful. Visceral. Fear, joy, a new, even deeper awareness of the wider world (which is terrifying, given the current climate). Awareness too of the day-to-day responsibility having a child brings. She needs us in a way neither of us has been needed before. It is oddly seductive, except at 3am. Seriously, though, Audrey feels like a part of me, to the extent that the first time I went out without her I felt as if I had had a limb amputated._

_But of course, it’s the moments when she reminds me of her father - or mine - that I treasure most. Expressions. A look in her eye that is 100% pure Joe; a smile that is SO Tom I want to squeeze her. The way music makes her face light up. That is SOOO him too. I suppose there is something of me in there, but apart from her English Rose complexion, I can't really see it yet. No, hang on - no patience. And she can eat for Britain, but she gets that from both parents._

_Parents - FUCK. We are PARENTS. Me and HIM._

_Life with Tom Hiddleston - the Hollywood star, the actor, the man, the adored sex-object (can you hear my eyes rolling? I do that too much - T reckons I’ll go blind or something eventually) - has so far been much as I expected at the start. Yet, the personas we represent to the world, or at least to those who are paying attention to us, may appear to be rather incompatible. I assure you we are not. We work incredibly well together, we communicate, we love each other. YES YES, then there’s the sex… oh my FUCKING GOD THE SEX. Still, even now (sorry - I imagine this must be sickening). I have said this already, but I have always felt inadequate in that way. I do NOT conform to the current stereotype of glamour - I am too fat (although I am in the healthy weight band), too gawky, WAY TOO pasty and ginger...Of course bloody Prince Charming insists that I am the only one he wants, now and whatever, blah, blah… But getting pregnant and all the joyous shit that goes with that… I feared the worst. But if seeing the changes in my body and watching me give birth has put him off, then he hides it very well. And believe me, my man could not lie to save his life…_

_I suppose that deep down, I am still that fat spotty teen, and occasionally I doubt my worthiness to have a man like him. I know, fellow feminists, no need to shout, I KNOW..._

 

##  _Thursday September 21st_

Martha tried not to laugh, but despite her best efforts, a wet snigger burst out through her fingers as Tom returned to the room.

“Shush! I only just put her down!”

“But...you ( _snort_ )...why?... I mean…” She took a few deep breaths as he stood, hands on hips, daring her to laugh again. She tried, she really did, but the sight of him, softly-lit by her bedside lamp, wearing _her_ cream and beige knee-length butterfly-pattern robe, the one with the faux-sheepskin lined hood, was too much, especially at nearly midnight. She surrendered and rolled around on the sheet, a corner of duvet stuffed in her mouth to muffle the noise.

Tom summoned up as much dignity as he could, slipped out of the first thing he had put his hand on in the dark and hung it back up on the hook on the door. He turned and walked back to bed, glaring at Martha who was still wiping the tears from her eyes. “It’s not _that_ funny,” he grumbled as he yanked the duvet out of her grip, “I was fucking freezing and totally asleep, and in a hurry in the dark. Did you turn the heating off?”

“I’m sure you…” She looked at him for a moment, then another fit of giggling overwhelmed her. She tried to stop; he was trying really hard to make up for his enforced absences, getting up to feed and settle Audrey at night as often as he could. The baby was getting more accustomed to taking bottle rather than breast so her mother could get a good sleep, and the new routine was making a noticeable difference to Martha’s mood already.

Tom sighed heavily and turned away, pulling the cover roughly over his shoulder in a pantomime of irritation. It worked: Martha moved across the sheet and pressed her lips seductively on his back, moaning softly in her throat as her right hand slid over his hip and her fingers teased the hair of his treasure trail. Tom huffed loudly, trying to shrug her touch away.

“Don’t think you can get round me _that_ easily, madam.”

In response, she whimpered and pressed her belly against his firm backside while her tongue traced the freckles between his shoulder blades; meanwhile her hand continued its exploration. Despite his sleepiness and mild annoyance at her, Tom’s body began to respond. She increased the pressure, moaning a few decibels louder, rubbing her thigh against his. He felt himself hardening, the blood making its way unbidden to his cock as the love of his life undulated her body behind him. Martha’s wandering fingertips brushed against the hot velvet of his growing erection and he hissed. She let out a soft “Yesss!” of triumph.

Tom, determined to continue the game, harrumphed and jerked his hips away from her. Seizing her chance, Martha slid her hand between his legs from behind and stroked his balls, then teased his perineum. This was too much for him; he growled and swiftly turned his body to face her.

“If you think a bit of rumpy-pumpy will make up-”

Martha grinned wickedly and wrapped her hand around his hardness, making his eyes roll shut and an animal noise issue from his throat. Tom elongated his neck as his head went back and she stretched to lick the taut skin and smell his fragrance. There it was: his cologne, soap and a hint of Audrey. She savoured it for a split-second too long; Tom took his chance and pinned her to the bed, eyes blazing.

“OK, if that’s want you want, that’s what you’ll get.”

“What will I get?” she asked ingenuously.

“This…” he slid deliciously into her, “ and the rest of me, fucking your luscious arse off, _darling…_ ”

When, some time later, the silence of the house was again broken by the quiet rumble of his snoring, Martha reminded herself that this was always waiting for her. That this was her reality; work, love, family and the best sex anyone could imagine.

And that she needed to stop contemplating her own fucking navel and get on and enjoy it.

 

##  _Monday September 25th_

“Tom? Shiv? Where is everybody?” Martha crossed the lounge, ears pricked, heading for the kitchen. The house was quiet - unusually so. As she got closer she could hear activity and smell onion and garlic cooking. And hear the sound of Tom singing softly to himself. _Ed Sheeran,_ she recognised one of his favourite tracks.

“ _I don’t deserve this, baby, you look perfect tonight…_ ” he warbled, smiling to himself as he peeled prawns over the sink.

“No, you don’t. And yet, here I am.”

“Darling! You’re early.” His cheeks were red. Martha eyed him suspiciously.

“What are you up to, Thomas?” She looked around. There was a pan on the hob, the source of the delicious scent, and a salad all ready to dress in a bowl on the worktop nearby. One of Audrey’s little pots of puréed vegetable was next to it. By the bread bin was a plate of Martha’s homemade sultana scones, also defrosted, a drop in the ocean of baked goods that filled one freezer. _What is going on?_ “Where’s my daughter?”

Tom grinned, kissed her sweetly and took her by both arms to guide her to a chair by the little table. “Audrey is asleep. I sent Siobhan home early, because I need to get more practice in this parenting lark. Right now, like all sensible parents, I am making hay while the monster sleeps - cooking dinner and planning a cream tea dessert.” His smile widened and Martha almost reached for her Ray-Bans.

“Oh, OK… good. Right.” She thought for a moment, wanting to clear the decks for a properly relaxing evening. “I’ll pop up and gather the laundry then-”

“Done.”

“What?”

“Washed, dried, folded and ironed as needed, put away. Did it during her morning nap.” A sceptical eyebrow. Tom looked down, chuckling. “Well, Shiv had put it on and helped, did the ironing, but I did everything else.” He raised his gaze to meet hers and she rewarded him with a grin. Martha stood up, dithering. She was used to the nanny keeping on top of things, but this was slightly disorientating. “You are ridiculous. Um...I’ll go and change, I think. When did she last have a bottle?”

“She had some water and juice about, I dunno, three hours ago? She was grumpy and thirsty, but she went off to sleep OK after that.”

As if on cue, the hesitant beginnings of a wail came through the intercom. Audrey snuffled, grunted, squeaked and then, after a big intake of breath, called for attention. Her parents exchanged affectionate looks and Martha pointed to her own chest. “I’ll go - I can feed her up there and change after. How long…?” She inclined her head to the cooker.

“Whenever you’re ready. The sauce is almost there; I just need to cook some pasta.”

Later that evening, after a pleasant dinner and an hour or so mooning over their daughter together, Martha sat with her feet in Tom’s lap. She was scrolling through Twitter, he was reading an Anthony Trollope novel. Putting her phone down, she sighed contentedly. “This is the life! I never knew you’d make such a good wife, Thomas! I might even consider marrying you.”

He smiled sweetly. “Well, if you do, I might even consider asking you.” His face became serious. “How are you feeling, Mar? Where are you?” Martha stayed silent. He started rubbing and playing with her feet. “I do understand, Mar. I think. All the changes, your Dad...You’re feeling lost in a life you love and want. I’m sorry, Mar. I know you will find yourself again. I know it. I want to help.”

Martha looked at him, her jaw tight, fighting back the tears. He’d done it again. They both seemed to have this ability to cut straight to the heart of the other’s thoughts. Nodding, she reached for his hand. “I’m not unhappy, or anything even remotely like it, and I don’t want you to think that it’s because you are away a lot, and I am here with Audrey…” Tom wiped a tear from her cheek. “I suppose I just need to think it through, work it out...find a new approach…?”

Tom didn’t respond to this, just pulled Martha gently onto his lap. He stroked her cheek, then nuzzled her hair. He knew she needed his love more than his words, so he kissed her temple, then snuggled her closer still. They stayed like that for a while: silent, her head on his shoulder, hands entwined until he could resist no longer. His mouth found hers and they kissed, deep and long and increasingly passionately. As the clock in the corner ticked round to eleven pm, Tom gathered his love in his arms and carried her to bed.  

 


	5. Wise Saws and Modern Instances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom makes a big decision. Now, if only he can persuade Martha that it's a good one...

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_Identity is a slippery thing. I don’t mean the legal kind, I mean the one you carry in your head. I say ‘one’, but none of us has just one, do we? I’ve got loads - take your pick: Essex girl… English, European, human… Daughter, woman, actor, writer, mother… ‘wife’?_

_I look at Aude sometimes, when her eyes are roving around, searching for whatever it is she seeks, or when she grabs her own foot, or one hand with the other. Does she have a sense of self yet? Is she just a bag of emotions and sensations? She loves to laugh, and she joins in when we do - but she picks up on negativity, too, as I am sure all babies do. Does she see that as an external thing? Can she tell where her own edges are?_

_That’s the trick. Knowing where your edges are, I mean. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel acutely aware of mine, but that’s because I’ve never felt I fitted in.  When I started primary school, it didn’t take long for me to realise that other families didn’t sit around the table folding election addresses, stuffing them into envelopes and discussing human rights, or know all the words to ‘The Internationale’ and ‘Bandiera Rossa’... And books. Miss Middleton loved me because whatever the topic, I could always bring in a book about it. The other kids just thought I was weird. They were right, technically..._

_And I suppose I was always political, always argumentative. Even Mum used to say I should let things go sometimes, but I can’t. I know what she means, but I can’t. Everything is of significance to me. What’s that Edmund Burke quotation? ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’ So I can’t do nothing. I know letting go sometimes does not mean do nothing, but… it does. I can’t keep quiet when there is so much evil around._

_That’s a big part of my identity - that ‘difference’; that need to speak out, to fight against injustice. It’s not the best way to make friends, but I have made plenty, and good ones, over the years. I am lucky, in some ways, that my chosen profession, well, professionS, I suppose, are a safe haven for the mouthy leftie. There are plenty of Luvvies who are at least ‘champagne socialists’... And drama has long been an outlet for the left… I had just approached the_ _[7:84 ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/7:84) _ _company when they went under, frustratingly, thanks to New Labour’s (insert spitting sound effect) changes in arts funding. Theirs was exactly the sort of approach that chimed with mine: tell stories, new ones and old ones about, say, the Tolpuddle Martyrs or the Chartists, but make them relevant, and take the show into small venues: working men’s clubs, village halls, local cultural centres, colleges. But they were gone, so I ended up making a career in the mainstream, while writing the plays I wanted to act in myself on the side._

_And this whole identity thing, it just pops up everywhere. Thinking about AYLI, making plans for it has got me focussing on what it is that’s bothering me. In some ways the play is about identity - Rosalind gives hers up to survive the perceived dangers of the forest. But then she embraces this new identity as Ganymede (look him up - the choice of that name can be interpreted as a gay joke). She isn’t unlike me: assertive, transgressive, refusing to accept the old notions of womanhood. And then at the end, when she reveals her true nature, order is restored when she says to Orlando “To you I give myself, for I am yours”_

_Because I am his._

_I do not believe in this kind of ‘ownership’, but it is undeniable._

_And being his, and hers - for Audrey has a piece of me as big, if not bigger - has made me question who I am now. WHAT I am now._

 

##  _Friday September 29th_

Tom closed his computer and stared at the window for a few beats. Had he done the right thing? His agent had been understanding but visibly perturbed at his decision. Not that he had actually done anything concrete about it so far. He hadn’t discussed it with Martha yet, of course. She was bound to have an opinion, but surely she’d be in favour, right? He looked at the notes he had scribbled on the pad beside him. Just the Marvel contract to play out - not too much there, and all out of the way by the middle of the year, promotion stuff excepted. The film he had signed on for the beginning of the year, but after that, nothing. _A free man…_

His eyes drifted up to the noticeboard on the wall that spanned the space between his desk and hers. It was a hotchpotch of work and home matters - emails, notes, phone numbers, a handout from the National Theatre, a contact list for Martha’s upcoming movie. In the centre was a picture he had printed out from his phone, one he had taken at the end of the summer when they were visiting his mother. Martha was perched on a breakwater on Aldeburgh beach, Audrey in her arms. They were both looking at Diana standing beside them, and all three were laughing. The summer breeze was wafting their hair, and happiness poured out of the image. He had been proud of it because the composition was precisely as he had planned: the rising slope of stones forming the perfect background, the faces all in focus, all of it so redolent of the place he could almost hear the waves and smell the salt air. But once it was up there, he found that it evoked so much more than just the memory of an idyllic day by the sea. He was alarmed to feel tears pricking at his eyes, but there was no doubt that the joy the last few years had brought to his life had transformed it.

He stretched his arms up over his head, releasing the tension in his back that the conversation with Hamilton Hodell had caused. He felt a tingle of unease at the thought of broaching the subject with Martha; he had been laying the groundwork for a couple of weeks and he thought she would be broadly in favour. Not that his recent domestic superstardom had been a ploy - he had enjoyed being a househusband enormously. Spending so much time uninterrupted with Audrey had been great, but also an eye-opener. He knew (his mother may have dropped a few unsubtle hints) that tending to the baby was only the start of the job, and so he had thrown himself into it in his usual fashion.

Step One: research. He watched Martha and Siobhan surreptitiously, read, talked to his mother, considered his memories of home and the early days of his independence before he could afford a cleaner. Step Two: planning. Knowing he had a stretch of time at home before the _Ragnarok_ promo train set off, he settled on that time to make his move. Step Three: implementation. Quietly and without announcement, he had begun to make himself Martha’s partner in every way. Not just the obvious things like getting up to Audrey at night, but the other, less noticeable ones like picking up the mess, seeing to the laundry, making the bed, making notes for the shopping order. And doing all of it _without being asked._ He had always taken his turn with the cooking when he was around, but that, he saw now, was just the tip of the iceberg.

Not that he was under any illusions. They were wealthy, and thus could afford a full-time nanny, which was an indispensable if luxurious asset for two people working in a demanding career that didn’t offer regular, nine-to-five hours. But marvellous as she was, Shiv could not be there twenty-four seven, and his absences were hard on Martha. She put in a full day writing or researching, or perhaps learning lines (soon rehearsing, too) and then, every day while he was off across the Atlantic or further afield, she had to come home and do all the domestic chores as well as care for an infant. Having had a taste of what that was like, albeit not alone but at least trying to carry the majority of the load, he could understand why she seemed so weary. He just hoped her knee-jerk refusal to accept help wouldn’t be the reaction this time.

Meanwhile, he had things to do. Preparation was the key; that and a little light seduction. If the last two years had taught him anything, it was that he could persuade even Martha _The Beast_ East around to his point of view with the carefully calibrated amount of love, lust and reason (proportions variable according to subject, prevailing conditions and mood). On this occasion, that meant a romantic dinner for two - candles, music, the full Monty (that too, if need be; he wasn’t above a bit of sexual enticement). But mainly he was going to lay it all out for her. What he wanted, what he hoped she wanted too. He was nervous, but confident.

*********

“No.”

“Mar, be reaso-”

“I am. This… _this plan_ of yours _,_ this is not reasonable.”

“Why ever not? All I am proposing is that I take the equivalent time out that you did.”

Martha fought with the conflicting thoughts in her head. He was right, of course; what he had suggested, taking a six-month sabbatical after his existing obligations were completed was simply turn and turnabout for what she had done when she was nearing the end of her pregnancy. She didn't really understand why she was objecting. Except, perhaps, that he had sprung it on her and she liked to be the one with the good ideas.

“You’ll be bored stiff in days.”

“Maybe, but as I said, it’s my turn.” He reached across the table and took her pale freckled hand in his, his eyes caressing, admiring how its delicate shape looked against his own much larger fingers and rougher palm. He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was an appealing expression. “Please Mar, I want to do this. I’ve spoken to HH, asked them to look into any possible obstacles.”

“ _Have_ you?” Her jaw was tight; now she was furious because some PA at his agents’ office knew before she did. “Well, I don't know why we’re having this conversation. If you’ve already decided, then-”

“Martha, that’s not fair!” Tom stood up and walked away with his plate, almost throwing his half-eaten dinner at the worktop. She could see he was upset and confused by her reaction, but she felt frozen. Unable to explain it, even to herself, she reverted to her default setting: she sat, bristling with righteous indignation. She had found a detail about which she could be justifiably angry, so she fixated on that.

“You don’t think you might have at least _mentioned_ it to me first? Or maybe you thought I’d be so desperate for my knight in shining armour to come along and save me from the mess I’m making of being a mother that I’d-”

“Martha, that’s ENOUGH!” Tom whirled around, eyes blazing and nostrils flared. Two spots of colour glowed like traffic lights on his cheeks. Martha’s words died in her throat; she had never seen him so angry at her. Chest heaving, he stood looking at her for thirty seconds, then walked out. She heard the sound of him pouring himself a drink in the living room, then the terrace door opened and closed.

Twenty minutes later, after she had cleared the remains of their meal away and finished her glass of wine, a calmer Martha ventured out into the garden. It was almost dark, but the security light came on as she walked over to the wooden steamer chair where Tom was sitting, nursing his now empty tumbler. He didn’t look up, even when she cleared her throat. His eyes seemed fixed on his own feet.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I have been completely irrational about your very sensible suggestion.”

“Yes, you have.” His head moved at last. “Why is that?”

Martha dared a step closer. “I don't know, to be honest. I just… you caught me unawares. I wasn't expecting it, and for some reason I felt as if you were trying to trick me.”

“What? Of course I wasn’t!”

“Oh I know - I’m not claiming any justification for it. The simple fact is that I don't understand it myself. But I do know I was completely and utterly WRONG.” Her face was sad, and there was that bewildered expression again. Tom spread his arms and she took up his invitation, sitting on his lap and kissing him softly. He stroked her hair and she snuggled into his neck.

“I apologise for losing my temper, too. So, now you have calmed down, what are you actually thinking? With your _brain_ this time, woman.”

“I don’t know, really. I mean, it’s up to you, in the sense that it’s your career. You need a break, that’s for sure. But this...? I don't know yet. Feels like you are doing it for the wrong reasons, just to help me out. But I sort of like the idea…”

“Good. Because I think tonight has proven one thing beyond doubt.”

Martha lifted her head up and looked him in the eye. “Oh yes? What’s that?”

Tom tapped her lightly on the sternum. “That you need me here.” She shook her head but he caught it gently in his hands. “Yes you do. You’re exhausted, physically, and more importantly, emotionally. So tired you can't think straight.” He deployed his puppy dog eyebrows again and this time they worked. Not that Martha would admit it, but she did shrug and return her head to his shoulder.

“Maybe.”

“No ‘maybe’ about it, girl. Now, let’s get indoors before we both freeze. The scotch is wearing off!”

 

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_I shouldn’t really be here today. I’m stewing, in fact I am simmering, on the verge of boiling over. And I try, as a rule, to keep negativity out of this room. I need to be able to focus here and that isn’t easy if the space becomes too associated with this kind of thing._

_The NT - well, Rufus, anyway - got back to me with preliminary thoughts about ‘The Empty Chair’. He liked it, but it turns out they don't have a place for it in the 18/19 season after all. I flogged my guts out to get it done to meet their deadline; sitting in the dark some nights after feeding the babe and tapping away, just for them to say I didn't need to finish it so soon. I wanted to cry when he told me, but instead I may have suggested a desire to tear him a new one. Or to shove his 18/19 programme up his Royal-warranted arse… I didn’t, but he knows me well, so I’m sure he got that from my frosty politesse..._

_I haven’t told T yet. I got the call here and I am loath to go home before I get myself back on the rails. Just when I felt as if I was getting a handle on my thoughts something like this comes along and_

_See? I am doing it again. Rufus did NOT say they don’t want the play. He said the exact opposite. Just that after discussions with the team, they wanted to change the direction of the season slightly. A touch more EM, a little less contemporary, and as the other new work they commissioned is all polished and performance-ready, that’s the one they are keeping on the slate._

_But it still feels like a rejection._

_And specifically, a rejection of ME, because this work is SO personal, and so pertinent to me RIGHT NOW._

_There’s another thing that’s upsetting me about it. The last new thing I had put on was ‘Scenes’. I think of myself as a writer, but that was over two years ago, now. And only an hour on the radio, a small thing (to others, at least). I don't think I’m that egotistical or greedy; I was happy to wait another year for TEC to appear, but now it will be at least twelve more months on top of that…_

_And there I go again, not being honest. This IS about my self-image. The last work of mine that was publicly performed was about Tom and me, and the world knows what happened afterwards. Now it might appear to some that I got what the play was designed to get me: I have settled into luxurious domesticity with the man-of-my-dreams and given up on being that renowned leftie-feminist playwright._

_Reverted to the female stereotype._

_Why does it bother me so much that people I don’t know or care about might believe that?_

_Because I am human. And because it feels - a bit - true._

 

##  _Wednesday October 4th_

“Do you have any other options? Could you take it back and put it on yourself, at Edinburgh or something?”

Martha shook her head over her feta and olive salad. “Nah. They commissioned it. They have first option and they haven’t said they won’t do it, just that they are postponing it. There wasn't a use-by date in the contract, unfortunately.”

“I see.” Tom chewed his lip, searching for the right words. He could see this had hit her hard, and in a more profound way than the budget tussle with the _BBC_ had. That meeting had brought out his beloved _Angry Martha._ The news from the _Royal National_ seemed to have made her terribly sad. And thus, by association, him too. “Well, you have other projects, right? The films, _As You Like It._ Your concentration camp play? And didn’t you say Marianne had some TV proposals for you?”

Martha looked up and fixed him with a gimlet eye. He felt encouraged to see the spark in her was undimmed after all. There was a dab of flour on her forehead, a legacy of the hour or so she spent furiously baking when she got home. She smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, Sunny Jim, I’ll find plenty to keep me busy while you’re here doing your Marie Antoinette impression.”

Tom laughed and took another forkful of starter. He chewed thoughtfully for a minute, then swallowed. “Who was ‘Sunny Jim’ anyway?”

“Haha! _I was just_...No idea. It was one of Dad’s things. When he wanted to tease or moan about someone he’d call them that. Including me… _especially_ me, come to think of it. That, or ‘Lady Muck’, or ‘Miss Fernackerpan’.”

Tom was nodding furiously. “Mine too! And Mum… must be a last-century thing.”

“The cat was always getting called Lady Muck - but then, she asked for it.”

Tom’s face became suddenly wistful. “How do you feel about us getting a cat?”

“What? One of those little tin pot potentates, leaving a mess of dead creatures everywhere and treating us all like its slaves? No thank you!”

He grinned. He knew perfectly well that Martha loved cats; she had fed several strays regularly when she lived in Stoke Newington, and had taken one of them to the vet when it was unwell. “What about a _dog_ then…?” He fished his phone out of his pocket and opened the _Battersea Dogs’ Home_ page. “There are always plenty of strays and rescues-”

“Thomas, what _are_ you on about? A dog? _Us_?”

He put down his phone and looked at her. His face had a zealous expression and Martha could feel herself getting drawn in by him, even though he hadn't so much as showed her a picture yet. “I thought, as we’ll both be around, and Shiv if not, that we might consider it?” He glanced unconsciously at the baby monitor. “We both grew up with dogs, didn’t we? Do we really want Audrey to miss out on that experience?”

She put down her cutlery carefully and folded her arms. “We’d have to discuss it with Shiv and the Mums first. Because they’re the ones who’d have to look after it when we’re away.”

“Agreed.” He kept his expression neutral, but he knew he’d won.

She leaned forward and banged her finger firmly on the table. “And it has to be something ordinary - a street urchin of some kind. Not some designer cross or fancy breed. In fact, it must be no fixed breed, no fixed abode...”

He nodded vigorously. “Absolutely! The scruffier the better. Hybrid vigour! Temperaments are better in mongrels, too. Take a look, Mar - there are loads there right now, needing a home.” He passed his phone over and Martha scrolled down. Every shot made her heart clutch, and she bit back a few ‘awwws’ as she surveyed the current inmates.

“Alright, I’ll give it serious consideration.” She smiled as his face fell visibly. “I just mean, let’s both sleep on it and do what we said - talk to your Mum and mine, and Siobhan. We all have to be onboard. It’ll be like having another child, you know.” Inside, Martha was dancing. She’d missed having a furry pal ever since she left home, and although she had briefly considered raising it herself recently, getting used to Audrey had seemed like enough of a mountain to climb. But if Tom was going to be at home for a spell, this might be the perfect moment.

 

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_Well, it looks as if ‘dog-owner’ will have to be added to the checklist of my identities. After two days of ‘we can walk him on the Heath’, ‘what shall we call him? (I want an oddball name like ‘Tony’ or ‘Keith’, but I might not win that one) and ‘imagine the fun on the beach!’, and the necessary corroborating testimonies (Mum nearly bit my hand off - she’s been missing having a dog since Mindy died), we have an appointment at Battersea’s Windsor branch tomorrow to meet some lurcher puppies. I explained our situation to the woman on the phone, and she’s arranged for us to do it privately._

_Don’t tell him, but I am incandescent with excitement. Somehow, I feel as if getting a dog will make us a family, for real. Illogical, I know. We are a family already, but making that commitment seems like a symbolic act for us._

_I know, I’m really not rational today._

_I can’t tell if it was part of T’s plan or not, but the dog thing has definitely lifted my mood. That and the call I got last night confirming that Sanjeev Bhaskar wants to be my Touchstone. All the major roles are filled, now all I have to do is come up with a proper concept before February and the first table read. While acting in two movies, getting used to a dog around the place and negotiating Audrey’s first Christmas…_

_And how is my struggle going, you ask? The desperate search for my identity in the new reality of my utterly enviable life?_

_It’s OK. I accept that I have the time and space (and money) for such self-indulgence that many are denied. I wrestle daily with the guilt. I have so much, both materially and in terms of love and support… I should be happy, grateful, and I am. I feel I could do more to help others, but that is the way I have felt all my life. Whatever I do, what Tom does, it never feels like enough. So I keep banging my drum, he does too (but in his very English, quiet but firm way)._

_But you asked about my inner battle, right? My search for myself, as T calls it._

_Honestly, it seems less of an issue than it did three days ago. Maybe I have allowed it to rest on the back burner, or perhaps I have accepted that it might take a while, and that sitting and brooding isn’t the way to resolve it. I have stuff to do, and life has to come first for now._


	6. Pouch on Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha bats away criticism of her non-attendance at every Ragnarok premiere as she gets down to proper preparation for her As You Like It. Tom discovers that other aspects of the business aren't as easy as they look.

##  _Wednesday 1st November_

 

“It’s _All Saints Day_ today, you know.”

“Is it _really_?”

“Yes.” Tom chose to disregard the mild sarcasm and finished taking his socks off, then turned towards Martha, who was already in bed reading.

“Did you bump into any saints today?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not that I know of, but then, would you be able to tell? Are there any actual saints these days, besides you, that is?”

She put her book down and fixed him with one of her looks. The ones he loved so much; the kind that made him incredibly horny. “I think you know the answer to that, Thomas William.”

“You don’t think there might be such a thing as a secular ‘saint’?” He mimed the quotation marks, then stood up to finish undressing.

“Maybe, but I wouldn't use the term... Of course there are plenty of people who do good works,” she looked at him steadily, “but nobody is a hundred per cent pure, surely? The word _saint_ suggests a holiness that I don’t believe exists in reality.” Her eyes scanned his body rapidly. There was nothing pure or holy about her thoughts at that moment.

Tom smirked and headed for the en suite. “Not around here, that’s for sure.” The sound of his footsteps reached the puppy’s ears and a soft but piercing metallic whine came from down the hall in the direction of the utility room. “Shush, Jake… you’ll wake Audrey!” Both parents froze, anticipating a wail, but none came.

Martha smiled in relief. “She seems to be immune to his noises, except the barks, and those seem relatively rare, thank fuck.”

Jake, a skinny, long-legged brown and black brindled thing, had settled into life in the Hiddleston-East household quite easily. He appeared to be intelligent and keen to please - he definitely didn’t like being told off and would give off an air of utter devastation if spoken to in harsh tones. He had been house-trained in less than two days, and had greeted Tom’s recent return from abroad with such ecstasy it was as if he had lived with the family for years. Audrey adored him, smiling when she saw him and giggling at his every action. He loved walking on the Heath, and especially running on it with Tom, who had invested in a belt to which he could attach a lead. It was still a little early to allow Jake to run free, but once he had been neutered and fully vaccinated that would be the next step. The pup still complained about being left alone at night, but only occasionally now.

“He’sh getting ushed to it.” Tom’s words from the bathroom were muffled by toothpaste and brush until he spat into the sink. “He’s so attached already, I think he just misses the company when we go to bed.”

Martha grimaced. She suspected her man would have quite liked the dog to sleep in the bedroom (he didn’t say so, but his face when they left Jake whining the first few nights said it all), but she wanted to maintain one space that was theirs alone. Plus, the thought of those big brown eyes watching when they... _NO_. “He’ll live. We have to keep in mind that he’s a _dog_ , Thomas. He’ll be fine, and it means the carpet in here won’t smell of him.

Tom returned from the bathroom and got into bed. “He doesn’t smell, though.”

“I know, but he will when he’s older, I bet. Sooner if he starts jumping into the ponds, or the sea.”

“True.” He snuggled down and put his hand on Martha’s arm. “I agree, we should keep him out of here.” He kissed her temple tenderly.

Martha turned her head to find his face very close, one eyebrow raised. He nuzzled her cheek. She smiled and sighed, and his searching, pepperminty lips found hers. Before the kiss started properly, she mumbled. “Still would’ve preferred to call him Derek, though.”

 

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_My fucking phone is buzzing again. I know what it’ll be: either a journo or someone from Prosper messaging ABOUT a journo… Apparently, me staying at home instead of flying across the planet to stand next to Tom on red carpets in various far-flung cities means we are breaking up._

_I know, right?_

_But since a few hundred thousand people (I imagine - I can almost see them in their lonely rooms) are making blood sacrifices, summoning demons or sticking pins into effigies daily, I suppose such nonsense is click-baity and desirable._

_I went to the Leicester Square one, of course. I’m not a big fan of those things - not really ‘me’, all that adulation and designer outfits. And the empty-headed interviewers (rolls eyes)...  But I adore Taika, and he had me in stitches the whole evening, which made it bearable. He can do that with just a tiny widening of those lovely brown eyes... He’s HILARIOUS. And Mark is great, as are the others. I did get a few looks from the Marvel people - I don't think I’d be on their guest list in an ideal world. But Kevin Bigbossman has always been very nice to me, so it’s probably just my normal paranoia… That’s more Tom’s world: limos and glamour and flashes and hordes of screaming fans… I’m more fish-and-chip-lunch interviews, or Ian McMillan on the radio, or maybe, if I’m lucky, Kirsty Wark on a Friday night… Quiet, low-key, narrow appeal._

_That makes it sound like we have no common ground, but we do. We have loads. That sparkly stuff, that’s only one aspect of his career - and a fairly recent one, at that. But it’s something I haven’t shared, at least, not really. I enjoy watching fantasy - and to be fair, pretty much all of my work is ‘fantasy’ too, if more grounded in reality than the Marvelverse… But it’s the stuff that goes with it - the glitz, the fans, the ‘big money, big studio’ obligations; it’s all outside my experience. We did ‘Taming’ together, but that was hardly a blockbuster. And the sci-fi thing I’m doing next, that’s a thoughtful, small film. That’s my style, both as an actor and as a writer._

_Luke’s not trying to get me to talk to anyone, or even make a statement. He has actually made a very reasonable suggestion:_

_“Tweet a photo of you two with Jake. That’ll show ‘em.”_

_Apparently, adopting a puppy is proof positive of a strong and stable relationship._

_What a ridiculous business we work in. What a stupid world we live in._

_Meanwhile, back at the ranch I am working on AYLI, in between sessions confirming that I know my lines for the film (my first call is a week from next Monday so I need to be off-book). I’ve lost my Oliver de Boys. I won't name him, because I suspect the reason he’s dropped out is a better offer came along. I’m not devastated, but it was inconvenient - most people are booked at least six months ahead, if they’re any good. But Marianne - my darling, sweet, precious Marianne - called in a favour and got me Michael Sheen’s number. We have met before, but never worked together. And he’s available, and keen! It’s not a big role, and not that sympathetic (Oliver is a bit of a git, at least until he sees the light and falls for Celia almost simultaneously - gotta love Will!), but such considerations don’t seem to bother Michael. We had a lovely chat about Wales and the Miners’ strike, and Helena texted me this morning to say he has signed the contract._

_So, cast-wise, it’s there, barring last-minute panics, but those always happen. Part of the fun. I’ve snagged a few unexpected people for small parts, too - little surprises for the TV audience. It never hurts to have a trailer with a face in it that makes people go “Hang, on, was that…?”.  Now I need to start thinking about Rosalind and Ganymede. And Rosalind/Ganymede… In between the meetings with the location manager, the production staff and trying to decide what to do about the songs. Billy Boyd is my Amiens, and I suppose I sort of assumed he’d offer to write some music (that might just have been part of my thinking when I offered him the role), but he hasn't said anything and it feels a bit off for me to say something now he’s committed. He can sing, that’s the main thing. I wouldn't mind using the Arne music, actually. It would fit with my overall approach of ‘simple, no frills’, and save a bit of money..._

_Anyway, that’s just one of my ninety-nine current problems - and incidentally, not going to every fucking Ragnarok premiere on Loki’s arm AIN’T ONE._

 

##  _Friday 3rd November_

Martha paused as she passed the office doorway with a pile of folded baby clothes in her arms. Not a natural eavesdropper, on this occasion she could not fail to overhear Tom: his voice was uncharacteristically raised.

“They can’t do that, can they? I thought… OK, well, I think it’s bloody unreasonable of them, to be frank...Yes...no, I know. I’m sorry if I...That’s very… right. OK, thanks, Lindy. Sorry, sorry…”

Martha moved on quickly, embarrassed that she had listened in. It had to be something to do with the documentary he was raising money to make. The two of them had pooled some of their cash to create _TAM Films,_ their own production company,and the film about the Shilluk people of South Sudan was intended to be its first project. It was Tom’s baby, this documentary - not his idea, but one he had seized on with his customary enthusiasm, and at first his fame and known associations with the country had gained him some interest. But lately some of the investors had begun to get cold feet. Martha felt for him; she was familiar with this kind of battle from years of putting on her own plays. Tom was newer to the role of producer and having to raise money to finance projects; his budgets were also larger. He was learning the hard way how fickle and unreliable money people can be.

She slipped quietly into Audrey’s room. The baby was snoring softly, her little nose partially blocked by her first head cold. Martha leaned over the cot and checked she was OK. Audrey’s cheeks were red but she was breathing steadily and seemed peaceful. She could not hear Tom talking anymore. She returned to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

A few minutes later Martha tapped on the office door. “Tea, love?”

“Oh god, yes please!”

“Everything OK?”

“No, not really. Lindy just rang with bad news, _again._ ”

Martha stepped into the room properly and perched on her own chair. Seeing her sit down, Jake yawned lazily, stretched his ever-lengthening limbs as he got up from his favoured spot next to Tom’s desk and wandered over for a stroke; Martha leaned down and rubbed his silky ears. “Hey, Jakester. So, are we going to have enough of the readies to go ahead, love?”

Tom frowned deeply, and it struck Martha that she’d seen him angry more often in the last few months than in all the previous ten years. _Parenthood must do that to you…_ “Well, _yes,_ Hugo can go out and start filming. The initial budget is in place _…_ but barely, which means that instead of focusing on the message here, I will spend all my bloody time trying to find more money or cutting corners on post-production. _That f-…_ they said they were committed and the money was there. _Now_...”

She smiled wryly.

Tom’s expression morphed into something more like resignation. “ _Fuckers_. Their loss. I will find the money.”

“Yeah. Fuckers.”

“Ehehehe. At least, when I’m taking my sabbatical I’ll be here so I can slob around, please myself and even wear my trackies with the hole in them all day if I want.”

“True. But don't forget, _darling,_ I’ve put you down to join me in a shitload of drum-banging for my ‘ _Like It_!”

“Fuck, woman…” he groaned, slumping theatrically, “... of course. I am your slave, _forever_.”

She stood up, smiling broadly, one eyebrow raised sardonically. “Quite right! Now, I believe I was about to make my, um... _slave_ a cuppa. Biccy, dearest?”

Tom gave her an exaggerated top to toe look, a pantomime leer on his face. “Are there any _HobNobs_ left, mistress?”

“No idea. _I_ don’t eat them, remember… I’ll bring you a couple, shall I, if Shiv hasn’t scoffed the lot?”

Returning with the drinks and a plate, Martha sat at her own desk; Tom patted his flat stomach ruefully but did not decline the treat. She picked up her notes and scanned them quickly. Taking a day at home was all very well, but time was short all of a sudden. Tom had been away on the _Marvel_ express until three days earlier _,_ and she felt in arrears with her preparation. In a week’s time she would have run out of days to work on _As You Like It_ until her scenes on _Beyond Pluto_ were in the can. Then it would be Christmas Madness, and…

“When are you scheduled to finish filming?”

“Didn’t I tell you? The first, that’s what they say. But you know how these things are…”

“Ah yes, sorry. I was looking at the wrong month. OK, good.”

Martha swivelled her chair around and Tom, seeing the movement in his peripheral vision, quickly changed the tab on his screen. He looked distinctly shifty.

“What are you up to, Thomas?”

“We are approaching the time of year during which the occasional secret is sanctioned, within a loving and trusting relationship, am I not correct? Of course I am. I am always correct.”

She narrowed her eyes, but he had her there. “Fair enough.” She smiled saccharinely at him. “Are you getting me something nice, then?”

Tom leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. “If I told you, it wouldn't be the aforementioned secret anymore, would it.” She frowned. “You’ll just have to wait, _Miss Fernackerpan_.”

“ _Oka-a-a-ay, Lord Muck.”_

 

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_The walk here today was cool, fresh and invigorating. Dry pavements, the sun low in the sky and a Siberian wind chasing me down Primrose Hill. People in big coats and boots; scarves and woollies. I like Autumn. For one thing, the colours are my preferred palette, yellow ochres and burnt umber. It makes me think of holidays in Tuscany, and of long-ago walks to school through piles of fallen leaves; the smell of chrysanthemums and the promise of Christmas soon to come. Oh yes, I celebrate it. I’m not a fanatic. Although it’s not really a Christian festival - they just tacked it onto the Roman Saturnalia, you know. And all cultures north of the tropics have some kind of midwinter bash involving fire or lights or whatever. I’ve never objected to a bit of a booze-up around the hearth, whatever the pretext._

_Not that it’s on my mind now. I’m at the window again, looking out over the guttering full of dead leaves and pigeon shit, the browning moss on the tiles, the mess and decay of a typical London scene. Litter, fag ends: my city. I wasn’t born here, but it feels like home after a decade. And it’s where we live, we three (we four now, I suppose, with the lanky mutt), so home it is._

_I’ve been going through the text of AYLI, line by line, thinking about it anew, confirming my thoughts about the adaptation. It has stirred up memories, so many I had to stand up and walk around to break out of them. February, nearly eleven years ago now; a freezing rehearsal room, acquaintances, strangers... him. That day - I often return to it, in dreams, in thoughts. I can still remember with a kind of painful clarity how scruffily I was dressed, and how scared I was. I was ready, professionally-speaking, for the challenge. I wanted to do Shakespeare again, needed a break and the Queen’s Players were a known proving ground for new talent. But I struggled with new people - always went a bit over the top as a cover for my nervousness._

_And there he was._

_And I was never the same afterwards._

_Back then, did I spend hour upon hour agonising about how meeting Tom had changed me? No, of course not. I didn’t have time for such ridiculousness. We had to rehearse. We had to block the scenes. We had to learn the songs and the dances… His hands on my waist, twirling me around the stage. His lips on mine. His eyes…_

_I knew it then. From that very first moment. Even as I denied it, as my personal inadequacy filter kicked in and I said to myself ‘No chance, dearie’, I KNEW. His eyes told me, And they repeated it every time he looked at me for the next eight years. Shouted it. But I was afraid of rejection, so I hid from it._

_Whoever lov’d, that lov’d not at first sight?_

_But enough of that nostalgic crap, there is work to be done. I have a meeting with costume and hair/make-up later today. They will have their own ideas, but the brief I gave them was sort of Renaissance-lite. Early Modern, but not slavishly so. I want all the actors to be free to move, fall, dance, anything they wish. But at the same time I want people to know, should they switch channels and stumble upon it, and even with the sound off, that it’s Shakes. Natural colours, muted - I want them all to blend into the forest, once they are there. I know how I want it to look all together and especially, I have a clear image of how I want Rosalind/Ganymede to look. Tom has been making remarks about ‘hose’... Oh, he thinks he’s so clever with the puns… But yeah, I might need to work on eating fewer buns, and tightening two in particular._

_But rest assured there will be NO RUNNING._

 

##  _Saturday November 11th_

“Jesusfuckarseandbuggery!”

Tom put down the _Guardian Weekend._ “Everything alright, darling?” He glanced at Audrey, who was lying on her pastel check blanket on the rug in front of him. Jake was stretched out beside her, trying to inch surreptitiously closer. The baby was grinning gummily at the puppy, occasionally giggling when he shook his head or yawned.

A voice emerged from the kitchen. “Yeah, sorry, pardon my French… Just burned my hand on... _Shit!_ ”

Happy his daughter was safe if he walked away a little, Tom stood up and crossed to the corner of the room. From there he could see into the kitchen while keeping one eye on the two young creatures on the rug. “Do you need a hand, Mar?”

His partner came to the door, he face flushed and one finger in her mouth. “Nah, I’m good. I just used that old oven glove - you know, the one with the hole.”

“Ah. We really should throw th-”

“Done, _now_. It would have been OK, but as I was holding the beef, I didn't want to drop it. Hence the foul language.”

He looked at the tension in her face. “It’s only yo-”

“Don’t say it. She’s special, and this is her favourite dinner.”

“Of course she’s special. All I meant was, she’s not going to want you to work yourself to a frazzle cooking for her.” He sighed, pausing as he weighed his words. “This is about the play, isn't it? You’re worried about her reaction.”

Martha fixed him momentarily with a look and turned away. “Go and look after Audrey, Thomas. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Tom walked back, crouched down and ruffled Jake’s ears. “Granny’s coming for lunch, you two. Best behaviour or risk execution!” The dog rolled onto his back to offer his pale pink, bare belly for a rub, bringing another peal of laughter from Audrey. He sat down again, suddenly recalling a wet July day when he had read Martha’s previous work in this very chair. She had sent the manuscript of _The Empty Chair_ to Barbara East a few days ago, and had been like the proverbial headachey bear ever since. It was a highly personal piece, very autobiographical and her mother had as big a stake in the story, so of course Martha was anxious for her approval. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding was just Martha’s way of preparing the ground.

*********

The food was delicious. The beef was cooked to an enticing pinkness, the Yorkshires had risen to crispy puffiness, the roast potatoes were melt-in-the mouth perfection. Even Martha begrudgingly admitted she had surpassed herself, and dessert was yet to come.

“I don’t know how you keep so skinny, Tom!”

“Well, Barbara, I run. I eat, so I run so I can eat some more.”

“Also, we don't eat like this all the time, Mum. Well, I do, I s’pose. Sometimes it’s all chicken, green stuff and yucky smoothies for the eye-candy over there.”

Barbara covered her mouth as she giggled. Martha was watching her warily, as she had from the moment she stepped over the threshold. If she had strong feelings about the play, she was concealing them well.

After lunch was cleared away Tom put Audrey back on her blanket so she could demonstrate her latest trick to Granny East. Barbara clapped with delight as her granddaughter rolled herself over onto her front and kicked her legs excitedly.

“Oh well done, Audrey! Clever girl! She’ll be crawling before you know, it, Mar.”

Audrey babbled in reply, drawing more exclamations as Martha came in with the tea and sat down on the sofa next to her mother. She poured everyone a cup and handed round the chocolates. “I expect you want to know what I thought of the play, dear.” Martha nodded, her lips in a tight line. Tom reached over and put his hand on her back. Barbara dipped into her copious handbag and pulled out the thick wodge of A4 paper. She put both palms down on it as it sat on her knees. She seemed to take a long look at the baby before turning to face her daughter. “It’s…” She took a deep breath. “I absolutely _loved_ it, it’s _wonderful_.” Martha seemed to crumple a little, as if the tension had been holding her upright. “Heart-breaking, but so very good, darling.”

Tom squeezed her hand and released it so she could embrace her mother. The two women stayed in each other’s arms, crying softly for a few minutes. He watched, touched by their closeness and seeing her as Barbara’s daughter, almost as if for the first time. He had understood her recent internal conflict intellectually, but suddenly it made sense to him emotionally. She had so many roles to play in her life - not all of them were as clear to him as others.  Then he noticed that Audrey was dozing off. “I’ll just put this one down for her nap. C’mon, Jake, you can help.” The puppy trotted obediently at his heel as he headed out of the room.

Barbara lifted one hand and stroked her daughter’s hair in a familiar gesture. Martha sniffed and raised her head. She looked into her mother’s eyes. “You really like it? It’s not too… _not too much_? Or too soon?”

“I _love_ it. And no, I don’t think so. I mean, I will never be over him going, but as you say, you learn different ways of living in the new reality. Because there is only one alternative to that.”

Martha stared at her for a long moment, then she nodded, almost smiling as something seemed to release deep inside her. “Yes, you’re right, Mum. Drink your tea before it gets cold.”


	7. Second Childishness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has a surprise for Martha when she returns from her filming in Scotland. That, and a few other things, all help her to reconcile the many parts she has to play.

****_“All the world’s a stage,_  
And all the men and women merely players;  
They have their exits and their entrances,  
And one man in his time plays many parts,  
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,  
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.  
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel  
And shining morning face, creeping like snail  
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,  
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad  
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,  
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,  
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,  
Seeking the bubble reputation  
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,  
In fair round belly with good capon lined,  
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,  
Full of wise saws and modern instances;  
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts  
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,  
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;  
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide  
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,  
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes  
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,  
That ends this strange eventful history,  
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,  
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.” 

 

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_Prepping for a production always means a shitload of reading, all the more so if you’re directing. But reading requires concentration, and for me that’s been at a premium for months (and it’ll be possible to read but tougher to focus while I’m away filming). Nevertheless, I have managed to glean this from some of my ‘what might Will have been thinking about when he wrote this’ research: he had a similar struggle to mine. He too had apparent, and not so apparent, dichotomies in his personality and actions: he was a provincial boy come to London; he was practical, pragmatic and an astute businessman who, nevertheless, wrote some of the finest words about love and passion ever; a simple actor - a mere player - who wanted to be more._

_That’s the great dilemma of life. We all do battle at stages with the differing aspects of our lives, of our ‘selves’. The trick, presumably, is to know what you want. But that changes, doesn’t it? There are times when your life spreads out before you and you feel the need to choose a way which will bring that which you desire - money, success, recognition, whatever floats your proverbial... But then ‘Events, dear boy’ and what seemed so important before is revealed to be shallow and pointless over time, sometimes overnight._

_Sound wise, don’t I? As if I have it all taped. Martha East - life guru and agony aunt. I talk a good game, that’s true… But nothing new there._

_And you see, that’s part of the trouble. I always prided myself on being straight with the world. Facing up to things, owning my own actions, my own feelings. And now, well, I guess the problem really is this: I can’t decide WHO I want to be._

_Do I want to be more like Rosalind? Maybe not, but I need to get under her skin over the coming months. Not only as an actor, but a director. She is the beating heart of As You Like It. Her brand of subterfuge is not unknown to women of our time, is it? She decides to assume a new persona, not least because it affords her the opportunity to try out the freedoms men enjoyed in Shakespeare’s time. She runs with it, and being clever and witty, makes it her own. It must have been hard to give that back… We never get to see the next act in the Bard’s romances; I wonder how Orlando and Rosalind were as a married couple (I already know about Touchstone and Audrey - snerk)… did she continue to tease, did he get her to dress up as Ganymede on Saturday nights? Or did Will assume she would simply adopt the traditional female role of his times?_

_Actually, I might have just given myself an idea for a play, or even a film script…_

_We can only guess at his thoughts on these (or any) matters, of course, but judging by some of the female characters in his plays, I suspect he liked strong women, and knew some; his mother, for sure, perhaps his wife too. That’s part of what makes him relevant. His people are real, for the most part, even amid all the dressing up, mistaken identity and improbable plots… he understood people, and what it means to be human._

_Now, if only I could work that out too…_

 

##  _Sunday December 3rd_

Martha didn’t want to open her eyes. Despite everything her other senses were telling her, she dare not. The sounds were of her own bedroom in Belsize Park - faint birdsong, the muffled rumble of traffic on the hill, all the familiar noises that the house made; the smell was right, too - Tom’s skin, their usual fabric softener, the myriad fragrances that combine to mean ‘home’, and that warm presence close by, that was her man, unmistakable. Yet still she hesitated, fearful that if she did look, it would all be revealed as fantasy, and she would find herself alone in the hotel in Edinburgh.

So she stayed still, hardly able to breathe, afraid to break the spell. Three weeks away from home - the first time she had been parted from Audrey for more than a few hours - had been an instructive experience. She had gained a new perspective on Tom’s life, for one thing. When he was away he didn't have to undergo the biological adjustment that she had (they had been weaning Audrey off the breast and onto a replacement formula in the lead up to her departure, but it still felt like cold turkey to Martha). Even so, whenever he returned home, in the first few hours Tom would always spend as much time as possible holding Audrey, touching her, in her company. That was totally understandable, but Martha now saw it was born of a profound physical need for contact; that was what she had missed so badly - the sensual reality of her daughter. So the afternoon before, her first after getting back from Scotland, she had lain on the sofa with Audrey asleep on her chest, Martha’s lips brushing the strawberry-blonde curls on the top of her head. And later she had fed her; with the bottle, but skin to skin like the old days.

And then there was the other thing. It was fascinating to her, puzzling and counter-intuitive, because she found she had missed Tom infinitely more in these three weeks than she ever did when he was the one who was away. She hadn't believed that was possible, given how much she ached for him during his absences but it was true. Filming her scenes for _Beyond Pluto_ had been a good experience;her fellow cast-members and the crew were fun, with a few old friends among them, but she had never been lonelier in her life. It had haunting echoes of her old life - professional satisfaction mixed with personal emptiness. The weekend he and the baby flew up to spend a couple of days with her had been an oasis of joy.

“Good morning beautiful one.”

“M-m-m-morning…”

“You OK? You’ve got your eyes screwed tight!”

“Yeah… Just don't want to look in case.”

“Ah yes. Know what you mean…”

“You’ve felt the same? Like you daren’t…?”

Tom kissed her hair. “Precisely. But you know, Mar, it’s OK. It’s real. You’re at home. We’re here, in our own bed, and Audrey’s down the hall. And Jake’s in his bed - chewing it, probably.” As if to press home his point, he tugged her closer, eased his leg between hers and kissed his way down her face, from forehead to lips. Martha opened one eye a crack. He raised his eyebrows. “See?”

“Mmyeah...”

Tom let out a great sigh and stroked his long fingers down the side of her head and over the pale skin of her shoulder. His warm lips found hers again and his tongue teased. As it slipped between, he caught one breast in his hand and they both settled into the bed a little more, their arousal building. Breaking the kiss to move to her neck, Tom spoke softly.

“Three weeks is wa-a-a-a-y too long. Never do that again.”

“Fucking _nerve_ of the man…”

“Shhhhh…”

“Anyway, you came up t-”

“SHHHH! _And_ Aude was in the room…”

“True.”

Tom gave up on trying to persuade Martha to stop talking and kissed her into silence instead.

 

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_I had to get out. I could see he’d got the DVD of The Jungle Book ready… That’s a father-daughter thing, for sure._

_Yes, just back two days ago and here I am, but that’s the job, isn’t it? And anyway, it’s only a few days this week, because apparently, I HAVE to be available on Thursday and Friday all day for something or other that Old Golden Globes is cooking up. I can never definitively decide whether I like surprises or not. I suppose the truth is that I like treats, but I’m a control freak…_

_But that said..._

_I guess that what I thought was a Christmas prez was actually this, whatever ‘this’ is. I’m also assuming it’ll be cheesy, judging from the soppy grin he has permanently plastered on at the moment (rolls eyes - unconvincingly). Yes, yes, he is the most romantic person I’ve ever known. Yes, infuriating. I know it’ll be something wonderful, and yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that it’s a contradiction that Martha - the Beast - East should fall for big romantic gestures. That, as a feisty feminist, I should reject all the exploitative commercialisation of relationships… Well I do, just not today after two days of being back. Maybe tomorrow. But for today, it’s back to the day job, which right now is prepping for the next role and As You Like It._

_And, more importantly, getting a handle on myself. My ‘self’, to be more precise._

_I have to say that I should thank Helena Ross, really. Not for the debacle over the fucking budget, of course not; but for asking me to direct, and even more so to play Rosalind. Because the work I have had to do has been of great assistance to me in finding my way out of the forest of doubt and uncertainty that I was lost in. I can see it now. That, and being up in Bonnie Scotland for 22 days. And Tom, and my Mum (with one of her wise sayings - she has loads. She should write a book. Actually…). What would this completely independent self-sufficient woman do without them?_

_But enough of that - you’ll have to wait a little longer for the Wise Woman of Primrose Hill to give you the benefit of her musings. I must get cracking on writing down my thoughts on each character in AYLI for the actors. I always do that, and email them so they can have a look - and I ask for theirs in return. Then we can really begin to have a dialogue and the play comes alive. Opening my email account, I have to say my contacts list looks pretty damn impressive these days! If you had told 18-year-old Martha that she’d be in touch with Derek Jacobi, Charles Dance, Rowan Atkinson and Lily Savage (well, Paul O’Grady, but we didn’t know him by that name really then), she’d have been highly sceptical…_

_And as for this name...the one that just popped into my Inbox_

_Joss Whedon_

_I wonder what HE wants…_

 

##  _Thursday December 7th_

It started with the little envelopes attached to things, all over the house. Rough handmade paper, beautiful and intriguing; each was numbered, one to fourteen, Martha discovered eventually. The first one she found after waking was ‘Three’, pinned to a jacket hanging on the door of her wardrobe. The next she found was ‘One’, tucked into the frame on the wall in the hall outside their bedroom. The picture was a collage of their baby and childhood photos.

Frowning, she called out to the kitchen where she could hear he was feeding Audrey. “Thomas, what are you up to?”

“Open them and find out...but _in order_!”

Martha harrumphed, but her stomach was tingling and she felt a little giggly. She paused in the hallway and opened ‘One’, which contained a folded strip of the same kind of paper:

**_Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,_ **

_Ah_

Following a hunch, she found ‘Two’ sellotaped to the filing cabinet in the office, the one where they kept their financial documents.

            **_Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force;_**

Still standing in bare feet and her butterfly bathrobe, she opened ‘Three”:

            **_Some in their garments, though new-fangled-ill;_**

Racking her brain, Martha did her best to remember the next line. _Bugger! He always has me beaten on Will._ As she tried in vain to recall it, she noticed ‘Ten’ pinned to the noticeboard by Tom’s favourite picture of her with Diana and Audrey. Giving up on remembering the sonnet’s words for clues, she decided to be pragmatic and search all the rooms in turn to gather the rest; he wasn’t exactly hiding them. Returning to their bedroom, she saw she had managed to miss the closest one, ‘Six’, which was taped to the bed head above her own pillow. She soon located the remaining little envelopes. ‘Four’ was in Jake’s bed in the utility room:

**_Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;_ **

She checked the baby’s room next, and discovered ‘Eleven’ in the corner of the cot. ‘Eight’ was propped against his _Olivier_ _Award_ , in the cloakroom by the front door; ‘Five’ was on a bookshelf. She opened it:

            **_And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,_**

‘Six’ could then follow:

            **_“Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:_**

_Oh, that had to be in the bedroom, lover-boy_

‘Nine’ was under a framed photo of them together: one of the paparazzo's stolen shots on the set of _The Taming of the Shrew._ She had joked about framing one, and Tom had gone ahead and done it, finding an expensive and beautiful silver frame as a deliberate contrast to the shabby circumstances in which it had been taken. It was a lovely image, nonetheless: the two of them against a tree, Tom’s hand on her cheek, their eyes locked. It made her smile every time she looked at it.

‘Twelve’ was sticking out of the copy of _Empire_ which had them both in costume on the cover to promote _Taming;_ “Thirteen’ and ‘Fourteen’ were tucked into his well-thumbed copies of _Coriolanus_ and _The Deep Blue Sea_ respectively, artfully placed on side tables. Just ‘Seven’ was missing: she found it on the kitchen worktop, perched on her electronic scales:

**_But these particulars are not my measure,_ **

Martha kissed Audrey, then Tom, then sat at the table to open the rest in turn, laying the strips on the tabletop. From the _Olivier_ it read:

**_All these I better in one general best._ **

From the pap pic, the line was:

            **_Thy love is better than high birth to me,_**

From the family picture in the study:

            **_Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ cost._**

From Audrey’s cot:

            **_Of more delight than hawks or horses be;_**

And from the movie magazine:

            **_And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast._**

The final couplet was shared between the two that were in the texts he had performed before they were together:

            **_Wretched in this alone, that thou may’st take_**

**** **_All this away, and me most wretched make._ **

Then, like a conjuror, Tom produced a final envelope and handed it to Martha. She examined it carefully. It was the same as the others, but it had that day’s date on it. She looked questioningly at him over the table, but he just half-smiled, anxiously, moved.  Sighing dramatically, she opened the envelope to find the words ‘[The Fuzzy Duck](https://www.fuzzyduckarmscote.com/)’.

“Huh?”

Again without speaking, he passed her his phone. On the screen was the home page for a self-styled ‘boutique inn’ of that eccentric name, just outside Stratford-On-Avon. At last he spoke.

“We’ve got the _Buff Orpington_ room for tonight. I think we both deserve a proper date, don’t you, my love? A bit of _eyes on me only_ …?” Martha was having trouble seeing the screen properly, but from what she could glean, the rooms were all named after breeds of duck, and the one Tom had reserved for them was beautiful and luxurious: super-king bed, free-standing bath, the most exquisite furniture. “I have also booked the private dining room for dinner. I was tempted to pre-order every item in the menu, but then thought I might give you the chance to make a choice, one choice, actually.  We can pop into Stratford for a mooch around this afternoon, or tomorrow morning… if you like?”

“Oh, _if I like_ …” Martha stood up and walked around the high-chair. She crouched down in the space between it and Tom and spoke quietly to Audrey, who stared wide-eyed at her mother. “Your father wants to whisk me off for a grownup sleepover, Aude. Whaddya think? OK with you, babes?” Audrey squealed and banged a tiny fist in the plastic tray, making her discarded teether jump and rattle.

“She says she actually needs some girl time with Shiv tonight.”

“And is Shiv coming over?”

“Well, I did consider asking Jake to do it, but he’s got something on, so…”

“Oh, what a wit you are. Mind you don't cut yourself, Thomas.”

*********

The room was as lovely as the pictures suggested. Martha almost disappeared into the soft down of the bed, and Tom had to help her get out of it, hoiking her up with both hands, laughing.

“Good to know for later.”

Dinner was delicious. In the end, Martha discovered she had ordered too much by opting for a risotto starter _and_ fish and chips. She knew she wouldn’t be able to manage a dessert; her partner, however, squeezed down a warm dark chocolate brownie with honeycomb ice cream. After several minutes of watching him relishing every mouthful she could stand it no longer and stood up, leaned over and kissed him. Pulling away she released her hold on his shirt and licked her lips.

“Yum.”

“Really, woman, you could have ordered something yourself!”

“Oh, but I just wanted a taste…”. “Shall we…?”

Tom was up and out of his chair before she had finished the thought. He took her hand and waving politely to the host on the way past the main restaurant, he pulled her up the stairs. When they reached their room, Martha disappeared into the en suite. Tom dithered momentarily, then walked over to his bag and opened it, ears trained on the bathroom. He was a little nervous; he always was when going for something he wasn't sure Martha would like. He had a gift for her. Not a Christmas present. Not something to celebrate a specific occasion. This was much more significant than that. Moving swiftly but quietly, he tucked it away out of sight where he would be able to reach it later.

Martha had packed a little something special too - she wasn’t one for fancy lingerie, but this sexy negligée set had appealed to her when she saw it in a shop in Edinburgh. She hadn't realised there would be an opportunity to wear it quite so soon. When she appeared in the doorway, clad only in thigh-length sheer lace-trimmed burgundy fabric, Tom’s eyes popped.

“Oh,... _OH MY…_ ”

“Down boy… actually, _no_ , not that… but you might want to close your mouth, dear.”

He wasted no time tearing his own clothing off and leaping onto the bed.

“Careful! Bloody hell, if I knew this kind of thing had that kind of effect, I’d wear it more often.”

Tom rolled over her, his large hands holding her head gently as they so often did. “Ah, but what if it’s just the novelty value?”

Martha rolled her hips, making him groan with lust. “Mmmyeah. You’re probably right, come to think of it. I’ll alternate with flannelette nighties and my _Avengers_ PJs, shall I?”

“I prefer your usual.”

“The old birthday suit? Yeah, me too…” She pulled back to survey him. “Of course, you have the advantage there.”

“In that I get to see your beautiful body every night, yes, yes I do.”

Martha felt herself blushing. “Stop it. Now, did we come here just to trade compliments?” She wiggled her hips and Tom grinned wickedly.

“Not _only_ that, no. Hands up.”

“Are you robbing me?”

“Shush.” He took her by the wrists and put her fingers on the bars of the bed head. “Hold tight.”

“ _Thomas…?_ ”

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life. And Audrey’s.”

“Then close your eyes.”

Martha kept them open long enough to give him one of her trademark looks, then she complied. Tom began by kissing her. He knew she loved his kisses so he made it last, teasing and nuzzling and sucking on her tongue until she was writhing and desperate for more.  As he released her lips and hovered she began to say something.

“Shhh. No words. Just feel, Mar. Just enjoy…”

His stubble rubbed on her cheek, her neck, her collarbones and then his lips and teeth were on her boobs. It had been a while since Tom had been able to fully indulge his love of Martha’s tits. Now he no longer had to share them and he was determined to make the most of it. With her arms raised they looked particularly luscious. Martha moaned and moved sinuously beneath him, but he took his time.

Eventually he moved on to worship the rest of her, slowly teasing, deliberately drawing it out until he thought he had tested her patience to the limit. Now her moans were louder.

“Mar, shhh! The bar is just downstairs!”

“Then stop driving me out of my mind! Fuck, Tom! Oh god, please…”

“Please what?”

“Let me come. _Make_ me come.”

Martha held it in as much as she could, not wishing to become the next day’s internet story ( _celebrity couple embarrass fellow guests with noisy sex session_ ). And when Tom, insisting she keep her hands where they were and her eyes shut, slid up the bed and into her, she did not cry out as she wanted to. Instead, she bit his ear until he squeaked in pain.

“Sorry love, had to let it out _somehow._ ”

Soon Tom forgot about being quiet himself. He wasn’t loud, but he wasn't silent and when he came he said her name with what was left of his breath until his hips stopped thrusting.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

He quickly reached up and pulled her arms down, rubbing them. “Of course. Not too stiff?”

“They’re OK.” She smiled at him. “That was... _very nice._ ”

“You liked that?” She nodded. “So you will concede that letting go can be a good thing?”

Martha’s eyes narrowed. “ _Yes…_ was that some kind of psychological exercise?”

“No. It was my fantasy… one I harboured while I was away.”

“What, me not talking during sex?”

He laughed. “Ehehehe, no. You surrendering control. Just for a while.

She smiled a little wider. “ _That_ I can do. To _you._ ” Tom rolled off her and they laid beside each other, almost nose to nose. Martha kissed him softly on the lips and he moaned. “I love you, Thomas William Hiddleston.”

“And I _adore_ you, Martha Helen East.” Turning away for a moment, he reached down to pick up a small package he had hidden under the bed. He handed it to her. His stomach was a knot of tension now. “I know you don't hold with a lot of the old ways, and I totally respect that, so do what you want with this, but I want to give it to you.” His eyebrows were so high they almost reached his receding hairline. “As a token of my love. My deep, unfathomable love for you.”

Martha carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a blue box. She guessed what it contained and looked at him steadily for a long moment, trying to control her emotions. He was right: she didn't believe in marriage, or women ‘giving’ themselves to men, but that didn't mean she wasn’t committed totally to him. She felt his eyes on her as she slowly lifted the lid.

“It’s beautiful.”

“You like it? Only, if you-”

“Put it on my finger. Please, Tom.”

She lifted her left hand and tears welled up in his eyes.

 

##  _IN THE CUBE_

_No, we are not engaged, or married. I am still me, he is still him, but we are also ‘us’, and in that we are more than the sum of our parts, blah, blah…But really. I understand his need for me to show the world, by wearing his ring, and that’s fine with me. We are going shopping tomorrow for one for him. If I have my way it will be a skull and crossbones with MINE - KEEP OFF engraved in very large letters… No, I don't believe in ownership… property is theft. Blah, blah… But MITTS OFF, MKAY?_

_As I was saying the other day, these last few weeks have brought an end to my latest identity crisis. Thank god, I hear you cry… yes, no more navel gazing - for a while, anyway. It turned out to be pretty simple, once all the pieces fell into place. And complicated… oh, see, that’s the thing and nobody can solve it totally. Anyway, Mum helped, even if she didn't know it. What she said that day, about there only being one choice other than coping with change, that crystallised it really. I’d been wrestling with what I wanted, but I knew it deep down._

_I want to be Audrey’s Mum; I want to share my life with Tom. Everything else matters, of course it does, but all of it pivots on those two. I can be a mother and a life partner, and still be myself, still do all the work I want to, assuming I get the chance. Tom laid it out for me on the drive home from Armscote. For all my doubts about my own worth, the work keeps coming, and it’s all good stuff, so what the fuck is the matter with me? He didn’t put it like that, natch, the polite fucker... Yes, I am giving myself that much needed kick up the arse, you will be very pleased to hear. So what caused this epiphany apart from your mother’s wise words, Martha?_

_The prep for AYLI has been a big part of it - old Will knew a thing or two about humans, and working my way through just one play’s worth of his characters has reminded me just how much.  And the three weeks of filming, being back in that atmosphere of commitment and enthusiasm. Being valued as myself, not as an adjunct to Tom, or even simply as Audrey’s Mum (a job I just said I wanted, but not only that...see what I mean about it being complicated?)._

_But being away, that was the clincher. I liked being ‘Martha East, actor’ again, but my whole body ached for her and for him. I can do it, but part of me will always be at home now, ‘home’ being them, wherever they happen to be. I see that, I accept it and I will learn to manage it. I’ll have to; others do. And I will. Because without love, without that fundamental connection that love brings, what is life for? And without time doing the work I love, it loses much of its meaning too. I can't have it all, no one can, but I can have some of what I want, some of the time. In that I am incredibly lucky and I know it._

_Oh, and that email from Joss? To me, little old Martha the Buffy fan? He wants to know if I would be interested in a role in Batgirl… Yeah, I know, right? So Comicon etc might be my world too, soon… The Marvel_ _people definitely won’t like that, will they?_

_Fuckers._

**Author's Note:**

> I have said before that Martha has much of me in her background. You might think her father sounds a bit extreme, but he is actually a mixture of my Dad and my husband, in political history terms... And I had an uncle who was actually named Lenin at birth. Also, to explain, this story was written a couple of years ago, before the real Tom got his real dog (he must have been listening - I knew he needed one), and when Joss Whedon was still down to direct Batgirl.


End file.
